


And Beyond

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Angst, Ghosts, M/M, Mental Instability, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the summer of 1994. Mark and Roger are closer than ever. The only problem is that Roger has been dead for more than two months. Told between flashbacks, dreams and the confused present of Mark's mind, a tale of tragedy and the supernatural.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_His eyes are open, but nothing is visible but a yawning blackness stretching out before him where his room should be. Terrified baby blues widen as far as they can go, searching frantically for the old Well-Hungarians poster that had been hanging in his room for seven years and counting. For the nightstand beside his bed with his glasses laid carefully atop it. For the night light plugged into the outlet in the corner where no one else could see it, only him. Nothing. Nothing but black._

_Mark wonders where he even is- he feels around for the sheets that he had been tangled in when he fell asleep the last he remembered, and instead he finds empty air. Patting around, he realizes that he is sitting on nothing at all when his hands meet his bare skin, thighs and then knobby knees, moving down to where his bed is supposed to be. It doesn't make a terrible lot of sense, but Mark is more focused on the ominous growling echoing from somewhere in front of him._

_It was low and menacing, something like a large dog and a bulldozer if those two noises could cross. Images of snarling beasts, fanged and wild-eyed, flashed through the filmmaker's mind and he stifles a whimper with limited success. One of his hands flies up to cover his mouth, and he is relieved to find smooth skin caressing his lips._

_Even if his hands are cold to the touch, alarmingly so, at least he has them. Unlike light, or a ground to stand on._

_Just as he thinks that, there is a sudden falling sensation and a gasp is torn from his throat without warning. "Fuck-" He throws his arms out just in time to land braced on them on the asphalt, wincing as layers of delicate skin are torn from his elbows and the heels of his hands. Blood is already beginning to seep out, crimson welling to the surface, and he realizes that he can see again just as the first raindrop hits his temple and slides down the side of his downturned face. Eyebrows furrowed, face still screwed up in pain, the filmmaker casts his gaze to the sky. It is angry, full of dark clouds and crackles of lightning, and he predicts the rumble of thunder less than a second before he hears it._

_As he gets up on one foot and pushes himself to his feet, swaying and disoriented, Mark looks around in an attempt to get his bearings. This is the city he knows, but not a part he's ever explored in all the years he's lived there. The brick of the buildings is mud-brown, ugly; the asphalt beneath his feet is too black, looking almost as though it could suck him in, a wormhole. Everything exists in sharp angles and harsh, unforgiving contrast. The lines painted on the road that he's standing in the middle of glow vivid orange, almost sinister against the darker palette of the landscape._

_At first glance the street is empty- but Mark takes his first tentative step and they appear. Every person on the sidewalk is staring at the ground. They are deathly pale, lips bloodless, dressed in black cloaks that hang limply around their too-skinny forms. One of them feels him staring and glances up, and Mark sees that they are crying tears of blood, only the whites of their eyes visible. A wave of nausea sweeps over him and he jerks his head away, turning it towards the growling far in the distance._

_The scene has changed again. The filmmaker is having a hard time keeping up- how is he supposed to know where the hell he is or what's going on if every time he turns his head it all melts into something else? He whips around wildly, muscles tensed to flee, and realizes that he is underground. This is the subway…_

_Those glowing orange stripes, the same ones that had painted the road before him only seconds ago, have followed him here and they provide the only source of light in this dark, dank place. It takes him a moment to realize that he should follow it; the light seems sickly, flickering dimly, but he's afraid that if he strays from it he'll be lost and never find his way to the living world on the surface. And Mark has never done well in small, dark places. He's nearly having a panic attack as it is._

_Where is Roger? Where is Maureen or Joanne or Collins or Angel? Even Mimi might be of some help, even April, BENNY. Though he is "the rock", Mark doesn't know what he would do without all of his friends to help him, give him a purpose in life. He'd probably just drift- like now, lost in the darkness. He hopes that the orange light will lead him to someone, lead him to Roger if he had a choice, but any of them would do._

_It seems like an eternity before he sees anything but darkness and that ominous jack-o-lantern reminiscent streak stretching before him. It is eerily silent except for the distant echo of what he hopes are his own footsteps and a slow, steady sound that he eventually figures out is his breath. But soon the growling starts again, without any warning at all. It's as if someone suddenly turned the dial on their stereo to full blast, and Mark can't even hear his own panicky thoughts when the orange light suddenly fills the tunnel ahead, flames shooting up out of the cracks in the concrete._

_He probably could have dealt with that. Mark Cohen is a stoic enough person by nature and although he's had panic attacks before, been nervous and fidgety, that's usually when he's embarrassed rather than scared. There are only two things that are truly enough to frighten Mark: the first is the dark, and nobody knew that but Roger and his secret night light in the corner outlet. The second is-_

" _Mark! HELP!"_

_Roger's choked, desperate voice has him terrified in an instant. Heart struggling to restart after it's sudden halt, the bespectacled man steps forward and looks around anxiously for his friend, fists clenched at his sides. Half-moons will be dug into his palms if he keeps this up, bleeding and aching to the touch, but he doesn't care. Roger. Roger is in trouble and he has to find him._

" _Mark, don't let them take me!" the guitarist's voice sobs, a nopte of fear in it that chills the filmmaker to the very bone. It seems to be coming from beyond the wall of flame only ten feet away from him, whose heat is oddly absent despite his proximity. "I didn't mean it!"_

_Didn't mean what? He wants to ask, but the answers are already shooting rapid-fire through his brain as he takes a hesitant step closer to the flame. The drugs, he didn't mean the heroin; all o fthe mistakes he'd made, April, he didn't mean that either; the hurt he'd caused his family, his friends, especially Mark- the bruises, the blood, the mental scars that would never be erased. He didn't meanit, didn't want to die for it._

_If Mark had a say, Roger wouldn't be dying for anything._

" _Roger?" The first word out of his mouth in this hellish place is, fittingly, his best friend's name. It sounds better, smoother when it swirls around unspoken in his brain; outside it becomes feeble, an echo. Roger couldn't possibly have heard that. He was pathetic- he had to try again. "Roger! Roger, stay there! I'm coming!"_

_Each word is weaker than the last, the final note trailing off barely audible beneath the roaring of the hungry flames which flare up in what Mark swears is a grotesque, laughing goblin's face. Horrified, he nevertheless takes another step forwards and feels the searing tongues lean towards him to lap at his fragile white tissues, tearing them clean off the bone. Although it hurts, it's nothing compared to the thought of losing Roger. He squints into the fire desperately even as his glasses melt right out of their frames and down his face like molten crystalline tears._

_Where is Roger?_

_The piercing sound of a scream, hardly even human anymore, bounces off of the smooth subway walls and that's all it takes to send Mark sprinting into the unbearable heat. There was the strangest sensation of his remaining flesh dripping off him, milky water from his charred bones, but there were more important things at hand. Roger, where was Roger? The screams became louder, louder, and he thought that his ears would bleed. He had to be close. "Roger-!"_

_And then, suddenly, the flames were extinguished. Blackness descended around him and the pain radiating throughout his body following the paths of his veins and arteries intensified, making him cry out in agony. Blindly, Mark fell to his knees and fumbled, desperate for some source of light. He HAD to find Roger._

_His hands met the cool, familiar metal of his camera and he sighed in temporary relief. He had his camera- somehow, that meant that everything would be okay. It had to be._

_The relief was short-lived. All of a sudden, the nausea from earlier returned with a vengeance- halfway to his feet, Mark froze and despite his burned, mangled body he felt as though someone had doused him in icewater. With shaking, barely recognizable hands- the orange light had returned, sickly and sinister- he pressed a button on the camera that he'd never seen before and aimed it at the ground before him, peering through the lens._

_The second thing he was afraid of was losing Roger…_

_There, in a heap on the ground, lay Roger Davis' guitar pick in a pile of ashes._


	2. He's Not Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: RENT isn't mine and the basest idea for this came from Next to Normal, also not mine.

_May 29_ _th_ _, 1994_

The alarm I've owned for the past six years is the most annoying thing you will ever hear. I don't care who you are, what you do, when you get up- that monotone beeping right in your ear? Yeah. No one wants to wake the fuck up to that.

I have to say, however begrudgingly, that it gets the job done. I bought the stupid old thing from the thrift shop for five bucks after the second time I noticed Roger sneaking back in at four in the morning, high as a kite; I needed something to wake me up in case he forgot his key. When I think about it I did a lot of crazy things like that for Roger, even before…

I had to really restrain myself from whipping the small black contraption at the wall, slamming my hand down on the big raised button on the top- the letters rubbed off a long time ago, but it used to say 'snooze' and it never worked until I got Collins' friend to fix it. Sitting up, I glared briefly at the flashing red numbers proclaiming it to be 3:00 am. It took me a moment to remember why I was getting up so early on a Sunday morning, but a quick glance at the calendar tacked to the wall over my bed cured me of that ail and I jumped out of bed in a much better mood, absently pulling on some clothes off the floor.

The cold wooden floor was less than pleasant to my sleep-warmed feet, but I walked slowly and allowed it to wake me up. The trip to the kitchen was uneventful. I passed Roger's door and paused for a moment, gazing a little too long at the scuffed piece of wood hanging crookedly in the frame, but no one emerged and I sighed as I continued, trying not to be disappointed. Roger was never up this early.

As I reached up into the cupboards, searching in vain for any remaining packets of cocoa to mix with my coffee, I absently thought of a day way back when in the early days of my New York experience. It was my first Christmas in the city and Roger had spent the day educating me about the city way of celebrating things.

" _Real New Yorkers don't have trees or ornaments. They're a fire hazard, and besides, it's a pain in the ass getting them upstairs,"_ he had instructed me sternly. I had nodded eagerly along, wide-eyed and adoring. At twenty, I was a puppy, not a man. I followed every rule he set me down to the last detail- Roger was my guardian angel. In some ways, he still is.

" _No tree… What about presents? Can we put up decorations at least?"_ I had asked, slightly sad over the thought of a Christmas without strings of tinsel and popcorn, the scent of pine needles. Though my mother was as Jewish as they come, my father was Catholic- every other year, our house had been lit up with multicolored bulbs and flickering red and green candles in the windows, the brightest house on the block.

" _Decorations are a waste of money. Presents are only if you want to. Come on, Mark, don't be a sap. You don't have a job or anything, right? How do you expect to pay for fucking_ Christmas presents?" He'd snorted at that, finding the very idea ludicrous. Once again I had nodded, suppressing a hurt frown.

Roger had been in the city for a year already while I tried- and failed, pretty miserably- to make something of myself at Brown. If anything had been a waste of my time, it was that year and a half I spent on a college campus, miserable and awkward amongst my peers. Roger had it right- the bohemian lifestyle was the ideal, no matter what cost. Even if I had to give up Christmas.

" _So… What_ do _New Yorkers do for Christmas?"_ I remember asking, hesitant. Roger grinned crookedly in response.

" _We trick… and then we have ourselves a treat."_

"… _Wait, that's Halloween!"_

" _Every day is Halloween here, Marky."_

He'd thrust a chipped mug of cocoa under my nose then, still hot thanks to the hotplate that, back then, still worked. And even now, the frothy chocolate and tiny marshmallow morsels tasted sweet as I recalled it.

My reminiscing, as per usual, gets me in trouble. Suddenly I'm not on my tiptoes struggling to feel the dusty corners of the cupboard- I'm sprawled across the floor with a bump on my head, having collided with the corner of the counter on the way down. Dizzy, I laid back and stared up at the skylight until all of the doubles re-merged into single objects. I grimaced at the sharp pain in my temple, waiting it out.

"Y'kay?" mumbled a voice to my right. I blinked and turned, ignoring the throbbing in favor of my curiosity. Sitting on the metal table that I'd been eating my breakfasts on for nearly a decade, cross-legged and bleary, Roger gave me a little wave and then yawned widely, chapped lips stretching and revealing a row of perfect white teeth, a dark abyss of throat and then nothing as he sealed his lips again. Despite myself, I was already grinning. I sat up perhaps a little prematurely and raised one hand to wave back.

"Fine," I assured him, getting to my feet and wobbling. Let's hope I didn't have a concussion. Already the concern has vanished, leaving that trademark mischievous gleam in his eye. "Are you coming?"

"Today?" He brightens. Always count on Roger to know what I'm talking about before I even finish saying it. "Is it already Sunday?"

"Went quick, didn't it?" There was a hint of a chuckle in my voice as I nodded and reached to unplug the coffeepot. No reason to start a fire if I wasn't even going to get a caffeine buzz out of it, and Roger never drank coffee anymore. He hopped off the table, lithe as a cat and totally silent, and padded up behind me. I was turned the other way, but I've grown sensitive to Roger's movements as of late, almost supernaturally so. I toss an adoring grin over my shoulder, still caught in my half-remembered non-Christmas from years back, and I know that he's smirking.

"Yeah, sure, I'll go." The nonchalance is totally fake. I know him too well, but he still tries to pull one over on me once in a while. Now that I've seen beneath the arrogant façade, I can't forget the vulnerable boy ZI saw. "Why not? Boring as fuck around here anyways."

"You could always bug Maureen," I commented drily, still turned away. I took the pot off the burner and poured myself a mug, knowing full well that I wouldn't drink it. When I did turn he was right there, calloused hands gripping the edges of the counter on either side of my waist, leaning in so close I was almost afraid he'd crash into me and we'd both be down for the count.

"She ignores me," he whined, lower lip jutting out in a ridiculous pout. I would have called it out but I was breathless from our proximity. Instead I blushed crimson and smiled weakly, letting him continue. "She doesn't even like me, mark. Face it. You're the only one I can bug."

Maybe that should have exasperated me, but inwardly I smiled.

"I'm the only one who puts up with your bullshit," I agreed, thrusting the mug futilely under his nose. There's an ache in my chest, because I know that he's not going to drink it before he even shakes his head but I really wish he would. God, I wish… I set the mug down on the counter.

"You ready?" His expression, a sad, knowing twist on his usual smile, only makes it worse. All I do is nod again, averting my eyes and trying to regain my usual cheer so that we could continue our banter. Without having to push or even ask I duck right out of his grasp and head for the bedroom for my camera, returning just a few short moments later. Roger is gone, but that comes as no surprise. I'll see him soon, anyways.

The front door clangs shut behind me and I begin the descent of a thousand stairs. Another memory, one of a million involving Roger's bitchiness, drifts past; winding the crank on my camera I smile fondly as I recall the whiny note in his voice, the many mornings I would listen to him bitch and moan over the eight flights of stairs that we climbed on a daily basis. In all the years that we lived there, he never got over that.

" _People weren't meant to live up this high,"_ he would say, totally serious as he gazed at me from the opposite end of the couch. _"This isn't an apartment. It's a fucking nest! We might as well sprout wings."_

And then Collins would pass the joint his way and I would giggle, already halfway to stoned myself, and he'd relax again.

By the time I reach the sidewalk, I can feel my mood lifting again. Perhaps it's unhealthy, how I let Roger rule my emotions, but I certainly enjoy the ups if not the downs. People brush past brusquely, nothing on their minds but getting where they're going. I take my time. It's a long walk to the cemetery but it's Sunday and I have nothing better to do- in fact, I've been anticipating it all week long, since my last Sunday morning visit.

I know without having to look that Roger is beside me again. We walk in companionable silence, enjoying the mild warmth of this late spring morning. It's that perfect moment between rainy springtime and sweltering summer and we have to enjoy it while we still can. The weight of my camera in my hands is familiar and comforting and I can practically smell the exasperation rolling off Roger in waves as I film random passerby, stoplights, alleyways. I've never gone into the cemetery without my camera- and I'm not about to start- but I know he'd like it if I left it at home for once.

Next time, maybe. If he really wants it. But it's doubtful.

The sun rises in the sky as we walk and by the time I see the cemetery gates it's blindingly bright. Light reflects off of the concrete and makes me squint, repeatedly pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose only to have them slide back down again. Yes, it's definitely an early summer; there's no mistaking the teensy miniskirts and nearly-naked men and women walking in small groups, the teenagers licking at ice cream cones and chattering like chipmunks. I remember being one of those kids. It's almost sad to think that I won't ever have that brand of uninformed bliss again.

Life isn't all ice cream and pleasant conversation, but they won't find out until later.

My hands lower slowly and the camera with them. I stared up at the sign, old and cast iron, and then out over the grassy hills within the gates. They're dotted with headstone after rugged headstone; it's not a high-end place. The stones are closely packed, almost on top of each other in certain places. It's the same cemetery we buried April in and where we would have buried Mimi, had her mother not interfered. It's all we could afford. Angel's grave rests in a much prettier graveyard uptown.

It might be a place for the living to mourn the dead, but I sort of liked it. It's quiet and peaceful, and on a day like this there are hundreds of flowers in bloom to cheer the place up.

Already, my feet have automatically begun to tread the path to my favorite destination. The camera is switched off. I've never come there without it, but the only footage I have of the realm beyond the front gate is the video I took of the burial. I never watch that. The sight of the coffin being lowered into the dark soil never fails to make me cry, and crying isn't exactly my thing.

There is a tune in my head, the same old one, and I dare to hum a few notes before becoming self-conscious and falling silent. Musetta's Waltz. Roger will hopefully take it as a sign to strike up a conversation now.

Looming up ahead is a black slab with gray-white letters etched into the face, no more special than any of the others unless you're me. This particular headstone was precious to me. For the first time, I'd taken money when Benny offered it. We both knew that it wasn't ever going to be paid back, promises be damned, but the relief far outweighs the guilt. I wasn't going to let them bury my best friend without a marker.

When I reached it I knelt and, ignoring the leftover dew soaking through the knees of my corduroys, reached to touch the polished surface. My fingertips had hardly skimmed over the inscription when I heard the familiar sound of an amused cough above me.

Roger's legs dangled over the edge of the headstone, sneakers barely scraping the ground beneath him. I sat back on my heels, setting my camera carefully down on a dry patch beside me and shaded my eyes as I smiled up at him.

"Hey."

"Hey." He smiled briefly back at me, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was still odd seeing him clean of makeup, free of bleach. Hair dark and eyes un-rimmed, he hardly seemed like Roger, but that wasn't really for me to decide was it? "How are you feeling?"

It struck me as strange that he would ask me so formally, but I shrugged it off and pushed myself up off the ground, lurching to wrap my arms around him in a hug. The fact that his bare arms felt papery, almost wispy under my touch, didn't bother me. Hugging Roger was a commodity that I had to appreciate whenever I could. Several deep breaths later I reluctantly pulled away, hoping he wasn't uncomfortable. He smiled wanly. I chose to ignore the strain in his expression and the bags under his eyes, glad just to have him there.

"I'm good." Belatedly, I realized he was waiting for an answer and stammered one out. "Maureen's been stopping by more… She's worrying over nothing."

"Sounds like someone else I know." Lips pulling into a slight smirk, Roger gave me a pointed look before tipping his head back and gazing at the sky. "What else?"

"Er…" At a loss, I cringed and shuffled my feet, a pink tint to my cheeks. I didn't have much of a social life, or a life at all- that was nothing new. I was probably boring him and I grasped at straws, desperate to keep his interest. "I had a really odd dream last night."

"Was it the one with the cats again?" He didn't bother to look at me as he asked, seeming mesmerized by the wisps of white in the azure sky. I guess I could understand that; it was rate, when Roger got a glimpse of true blue sky.

"No." I shook my head, sidling closer. I was hesitant to touch him without permission, since I never knew what would happen, but I couldn't help the magnetic draw he had to me. Once again, I allowed my eyes to wander and glimpsed the words etched into the stone he sat on.

It read:

_Roger Adam Davis_

_A967-1994_

_Rock God and best friend._

_R.I.P._

The same deep feeling of regret welled up and made me clench my fists at my sides, gritting my teeth as subtly as possible as I fought off tears. It was harder and harder to be stoic these days. Crying was still strictly forbidden- something that was self-imposed- but every so often I wondered if I should just give in. There was so much to cry about and so few reasons to abstain.

He must have noticed my prolonged silence, or perhaps he sensed my sorrow because he lowered his head to gaze at me mournfully. "Are you going to tell me about your dream?" he asked, voice low and husky.

Though moments ago it hadn't seemed like the dream was anything significant, I found myself meekly shaking my head. No, I didn't want to share it. It didn't seem right. Roger furrowed his eyebrows for a moment, scrutinizing me, and then hopped off of the headstone. He crouched down and I had a moment of alarm before I realized what he was doing.

He was tying my shoe.

Again, my mind whirled and I found myself caught in a fragment of the past.

" _I can't do it."_

" _Yes you can. You're not stupid. It's just a shoelace!"_

" _I can't DO It!"_

Increasingly frustrated, six-year-old Roger stomps his foot and turns bright red, lips set in a petulant frown. I knew him well enough by then to see the angry, embarrassed tears gathering at the corners of his big green eyes.

" _It's not hard. I can teach you. My mom taught me last year."_

I had smiled at him then, dimpled and full of holes where my baby teeth had fallen out. Inside, I had been anxious and ready to do anything to make my friend feel better. Roger was the first friend I'd ever made, and I wanted to hold onto him forever.

The other boy had wiped at his eyes as quickly as possible, trying to be subtle, and I had pretended not to notice. _"My mom said she would… But she's at work all the time. I thought I had it figured out but…"_ He looked down doubtfully at his sneakers, ratty laces tangled up in ineffective gray knots that did nothing to prevent his feet from slipping right out.

" _I said I'd help you, didn't I?"_ I'd knelt then, right in front of him on my own front lawn, and picked up the ends of his laces. It felt awkward to look up as I set to work- up and over, loop-de-loop and pull…- but I peeked anyways over the top of my Coke-bottle glasses. Roger's blurry face watched avidly, chewing his lip. He smiled tentatively and I did as well.

" _That's all,"_ I remember saying, and he had ducked his head to mutter a quick thanks before, just as hastily, pulling me into a tight hug. As soon as he let go, he ran.

I'd watched him, sneakers slapping the pavement without flying off for the first time in what seemed like forever, until he disappeared in the distance. And the smile hadn't left my face for the rest of the day.

Present-day Roger got to his feet and reached to squeeze my hand. His normally sickly-pale skin was tinted pink, the only hint that he felt anything more than platonic about the action, and I automatically squeezed it, glad for the abnormal papery feel of it in my grasp.

"I miss you, Mark."

I looked into his eyes and read the despair, mirroring my own emotions. I squeezed harder, vaguely hoping that I wouldn't break this fragile remnant of the man I loved.

"I miss you, too."

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

_Meanwhile…_

"Is that him?" Maureen shaded her eyes against the bright June sunlight with one hand, tugging Joanne along with the other. She squinted into the distance, over the rows and rows of simple headstones towards the single skinny shadow of a figure who she strongly suspected was her mentally unbalanced ex-boyfriend.

"Could be… It's close enough to the grave. Let's go see," Joanne sighed. She allowed Maureen to drag her, long brown hair swaying behind her, and struggled to keep her mind on the task. It seemed like every day her fiancée grew more beautiful- and she wasn't even aware of it. But that wasn't the issue at hand.

The issue at hand was, unfortunately, Mark Cohen.

As the couple wove their way towards the familiar shape, Joanne began to dread facing him again. She and Maureen and Collins loved Mark, of course, but the past couple of months had been an uphill battle. It was Roger that set him off- specifically, his death- and since they had only seen a steady decline.

Mark had always been the most levelheaded of the bohemians, but lately he seemed ready to crack.

"What's he-?" She shut her mouth with a snap as they drew within earshot. It was definitely Mark, definitely alone, but then who was he talking to?

She and Maureen gave each other looks of disbelief as they listened.

"You know I love you right? I still do."

A pause. Then, a laugh.

"No. I wouldn't even think of anyone else. I could never replace you."

Forcing herself to relax, Joanne gently wriggled out of Maureen's grip and took another step forward, still staring uncertainly at the empty air that Mark seemed to be having a conversation with. This was worse than they had suspected… As curious as she was about how this would progress, Joanne knew she had to put a stop to it. One dark-skinned hand reached for Mark's thin shoulder.

"Mark?" she asked slowly, wary of the response she might receive- or lack of response.

The reaction was instantaneous and startled- he turned on his heel and stepped back, blue eyes wide and nostrils flared. When he saw that it was only his friends, the strawberry-blonde relaxed a little and attempted a skittish smile. The way he stood seemed defensive, but neither Maureen nor Joanne could fathom why.

"H-hey. Hi." He fidgeted, feeling ridiculously as though he'd been caught in some forbidden act. But talking to Roger wasn't forbidden, was it? Only unusual. Misunderstood. Behind him, the other man had probably already slipped back into whatever world he lived in when he wasn't by Mark's side.

That feeling of regret hit him full force in the gut, threatening to choke him.

Increasingly worried as Mark winced, Maureen stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, the smile on her face ready to slip off as she wondered what could be wrong with him.

"You said you'd go out sometime with us, right? We thought today would be good. Right, pookie?" She darted a nervous glance at Joanne, who was a little more composed. Training in law had, over the years, given her an excellent poker face.

"We were just heading down to the Life," she said evenly, smiling warmly without making another move to touch him. Like a wild animal, she reasoned, he would need his space. "You coming?"

"Ah… Sure. Why not?" Licking his lips, Mark twisted his hands together and shifted again. He knew that he was acting like a guilty child but there wasn't much else he could do. "Just… give me a minute?"

After a moment of helpless indecision, Maureen finally nodded and pulled Joanne back in the direction of the gate. "Sure," she agreed, still smiling, strained. "Be quick though."

The moment they were out of earshot Mark turned on his heel, desperately hoping for one last glimpse of Roger before he had to return to living company in the busy New York world. He had vanished into thin air, leaving no sign that he'd been there at all. And maybe he hadn't. Half-smiling bitterly, Mark briefly closed his eyes and shook his head.

So maybe no one else saw him and maybe common sense said that none of this was real. Mark would rather believe in the hallucination anyways.

The filmmaker rested one hand on the cold, smooth surface of Roger's headstone and brought the other up to finger the cool silver ring hanging from the chain around his neck. "Goodbye, Roger." His voice was little more than a whisper, all-too-aware of his other friends watching him from afar. They probably thought he was crazy… "I'll see you later."

With that, he turned to rejoin Maureen and Joanne, trying to ignore the pang as he left Roger's ghost- hallucination?- behind and the feeling that maybe the others were right about him.

But if he was crazy, he didn't see anything wrong with it.

After all- crazy kept Roger around, and that was alright by him.


	3. September 1972

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I think we're all aware of this but let me say it again. RENT HAS NEVER BEEN MINE. Get it, got it? Good.

_September 1972_

The setting: Scarsdale, New York. The year is 1972 and the season is late summer, early fall. School will be in session in another few days and the children are lamenting the loss of their freedom.

Mark Cohen has nothing to lament. In fact, he's excited to start kindergarten no matter what his sister says about it being the gateway to thirteen years of hell. She's twelve and sick of school already, but the redheaded boy she calls her baby brother is firmly convinced that she's just being a stupidhead. He's smart, or so his mother always told him- school is going to be a piece of cake for him.

Impatient for his year to begin, he's dragged Cindy (because, well, she's been charged with watching him and he's good at pestering her) to the playground behind the elementary building. It's getting chilly, even in the early afternoon, so it comes as no surprise that they're one pair of very few that are milling about on the school grounds. Mark doesn't know anyone yet, only his next-door neighbor Maureen, and she's a girl so she doesn't count. He'd like to meet some boys his age, maybe, and get a headstart on those friendships that he has a feeling he's going to have trouble making.

In a vain search for suitable companions, young Mark scampers across the yellowing grass to the monkey bars first and is disheartened to find them populated by older children, who cast him dirty looks for even standing so close to them. He takes a hint, edging away and observing the rest of the playground. Two little girls play together on the swing set, giggling and shrieking at ear-piercing levels. A boy sits on the latter to the top of the metal slide, but he's bawling over a scrape on his knee as his mother, kneeling beside him, digs in her purse for a bandage.

All in all, not very promising.

Cindy, who is supposed to be keeping him out of trouble, has found a girl her own age to chatter with. She seems to have completely forgotten about mark, which is perfectly fine by him. If he can't make friends, he might as well go explore and he can't do that with his sister trampling along behind him the whole time, nagging about going home so she can fix her luscious blonde hair.

The woods behind the elementary school can hardly be called woods, just a thin copse of trees surrounding a shallow stream, but to a five-year-old boy it's a treasure trove, an adventure. Autumn hasn't yet ruined it for him, only a few browning leaves scattered on the ground, and he hopes that he can catch a frog if he looks hard enough to bring home. Maybe this time his mother will actually let him keep it.

Glancing up again to make sure that his sister is preoccupied, Mark begins to creep toward the treeline. Soon he's out of the watery sun and into the cool shade, surrounded by tall trees instead of empty space, and he grins when Cindy is out of his sight. Finally, some solo exploration.

The redhead fixes his eyes on the ground and follows the slope of the land until his shoe sinks into the black mud and he realizes that he's nearly stumbled right into the stream, which is cold and clear at this time of year. Wiping it off as best he can onto the grass, Mark crouches down and dips his fingers into the crystalline water, enjoying the numbing cold for a moment. It's so much quieter here- Mark is so awkward around other children, other people in general, but here in the tranquil silence he's free of that burden. His blue eyes roam the stream bank in a search for an amphibian but as far as he can tell there are no slimy green friends to be found.

Just as he straightens up, ready to move along to a new spot, Mark hears a young voice, male, catch in a sniffle. "Is that deep enough?" His eyebrows shoot up and he swivels around to look for the source. There, much further down the banks, a boy about his age and a taller figure that must have been his mother stood over a shallow hole holding a shovel. Curiosity gets the best of him and before he can remind himself that he's not supposed to talk to strangers, the bespectacled youth finds himself drawing nearer.

The woman that he assumes is the boy's mother rests a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it soothingly. "That's fine, Roger," she murmurs, and his shoulders shake some more before he takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. As he nears, Mark can see that the boy is wearing a hoodie two sizes too big for him and jeans full of holes. His sneakers look like they're ready to fall apart at the seams. He drops the shovel carelessly, letting it lie in the moss as he picks up the paper bag at his feet and placing it gently in the hole.

Mark is mere feet away now, but they still don't seem to notice him. The boy's mother bends down to pick up the shovel, using it to scoop the dark earth back on top of the bag in little piles. Her dress is frayed and worn, her skin pale, and not in the healthy way that Mark's is. She looks sick or tired or maybe some of both. As he's about to announce his presence, Mark steps on a twig and hears, to his horror, a sharp CRACK. Both heads turn in alarm.

"Who're you?" Roger asks, quickly wiping at his eyes to disguise the fact that he's been crying from the other boy.

Meekly, Mark approaches. "I'm- M-Mark," he stammers, feeling a flush rise on his cheeks. So much for tranquil silence. He sticks out a hand the way his father had taught him and after a confused look to his mother, who nods at him to accept it, Roger hesitantly takes it and shakes it loosely as though he's wondering if Mark is going to hurt him somehow.

"I'm Roger." He seems to be regaining his composure, even smiling a little as he withdraws his hand, and Mark finds himself mesmerized by those vibrant green eyes and long, dark eyelashes.

"Whatcha doin'?" he asked. In the background, Roger's mother stifles a smile as the two boys get acquainted. He pretends not to notice. Roger glances down at the shallow grave of the paper bag, smile faltering.

"That's Smoky." An index finger, nail as bitten as Mark's are, extends towards the bag. "He was my cat…"

"Oh." Most boys probably would have made fun of Roger for the trembling in his voice, but Mark knew what it was like to lose a pet and also what it was like to cry in front of someone. Sympathy, as strong as a boy his age has ever felt, washed over him and he resisted the urge to grab Roger's hand. That wasn't normal boy behavior, he remembered his father telling him, and he didn't want Roger thinking he was being queer on him right of the bat. "My dog died a couple of months ago."

Roger gives him a grateful, weak smile and sidles slightly closer. "What was his name?" he asks, licking his lips nervously.

"His name was Leo… Do you need any help?" The redhead gestured at the hole and Roger hesitantly nodded, again looking to his mother for guidance. She smiled warmly at Mark, and even though she still looked exhausted he could tell she was friendly.

"Would you like with us out for ice cream, Mark?" she asked. Roger's eyes lit up and he nodded vigorously at Mark, starting to grin. Mark felt his own smile creep back onto his face.

"Y-yeah… I like ice cream…"

Three scoops of dirt and a pay phone call home later, Mark was in a car he'd never laid eyes on before, buckled in beside the boy that he didn't even know yet was going to be his best friend.

He couldn't imagine a better start to the school year.


	4. Who's Crazy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: RENT is not, has never been and probably will never be mine. (Probably)

_June 1_ _st_ _, 1994_

A refreshing breeze ruffled my overgrown red-blonde hair but I didn't bother to push the stray strand from my eyes, staring sightlessly out over the city. It was Wednesday and I would have been working, should have been working- that was, if I had a job. And even then I had this appointment looming over me like some dreadful black umbrella, blocking out the sunlight. My knuckles were white where they gripped the safety rail, leaning slightly over it as I pondered to myself.

Beside me, Roger watched me casually with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. I knew that he wanted to say something, break the silence, but all I heard was the wind blowing all around me, The roof was good for thinking, always had been- Roger used to come up here whenever he was stuck on a lyric, smoking a cigarette or strumming on his guitar.

God, I'd forgotten how much I hated those cigarettes… It's been too long since I smelled them, though, smelled them on Roger and now I imagine that he's slipping a pack and a lighter out of his pocket and lighting up, inhaling the first lungful of cancerous gray smoke. I don't dare to turn and look at him, in case the flickering image has changed to fit to my imagination.

If he's just the spawn of my own creative mind, I don't want to know. I need this last shred of hope.

" _Don't you know how bad those things are for you?"_ I remember saying, perhaps my first week in the city. My nose had been wrinkled in distaste as I warily eyed the poisonous cylinder he offered to me. Smoking was a habit that Roger must have picked up in the city, because he'd never done it in Scarsdale- I would have known.

He'd rolled his eyes and withdrew it. _"Suit yourself, then, you pussy. I don't care how healthy they are."_ Exaggerating every movement, he flicked the lighter to life and brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a long puff and blowing it into my face just to exasperate me. I had coughed fitfully, perhaps a little exaggerated myself. But Roger had never listened to me when it came to drugs. I hadn't been able to make him quit smoking in the eight long years that I'd lived with him. _"Tastes good to me."_

" _Nasty."_ It had taken all of my self control not to smile at him as he smirked at me triumphantly, leaning against the brick wall of the building. It had been my first time out on the fire escape, the first night I'd spent in the loft. Roger was still showing me around and I was still getting used to the city air, the bright lights and the people everywhere. Being up that high had made me a little dizzy but I was determined to act normal, as though it didn't bother me at all that I could plummet to my death at any moment.

Roger knew me too well. He'd tugged me back from the edge and I had stumbled into him, blushing madly and stuttering out a protest as he switched places with me. He looked smug, leering at me. _"Pussy."_ He emphasized, but I didn't have the grounds to argue with him.

"You know you have to go eventually. You can't procrastinate forever." The unusually quiet, serious voice startled me and I looked up, blinking, to see Roger eying me with a certain degree of reproachfulness. He was paler than usual and I had half a mind to dote on him like I had when he was alive, but for all I knew it was just a ghost thing- pointing it out would only make him self-conscious and I didn't want him storming off and never coming back just because I had to worry over every little detail…

"Yes, I can." I shrugged and turned away again, unable to meet those accusing green eyes. They bored into me from behind and I cringed. "I don't want to go…"

"Well I didn't want to get sick and die," he snapped and the words were like a physical blow, making me recoil. My guilty eyes snapped back up to him. Moody, he frowned deeply and looked ready to stomp his foot- instead, his hand reached out to punch me on the arm. I barely felt it but I didn't say anything. Let him think it hurt.

I was always good for Roger's ego.

"You have to go." I was the one frowning now, petulant at his insistent tone. What, I didn't get a choice in the matter? What if I didn't _want_ to go get shrink-wrapped? What if I didn't _care_ that Maureen and Joanne were "concerned" about my recent behavior?

It didn't matter, I told myself, that I _did_ in fact care and that everyone knew it. What mattered was the principal. I had the control, didn't I? I needed the control. I needed someone to confirm for me that yes, yes Mark, you HAVE the control.

Roger was never one to mollycoddle. "You _have_ to _go_."

"Maybe I don't have to go." It was weak to my own ears. "Maybe I'm perfectly fine right now." Pathetic. "I'm fine."

He snorted.

"Don't give me that bullshit. Go." He drew one hand out of his pocket, pointing it towards the stairs, nodding his head and allowing his dark hair tall slightly into his face. I've never seen Roger so… solemn, so serious about one of our argument. He's the emotional one, the one whose always on the verge of jumping and shouting and crying and splattering his feelings all over anyone in the immediate area, whoever they may be. This cold approach was new and frightening. " _Go_ , Cohen."

Ah. There it was, the silver lining on the edge of his voice. The tremble that only I could have heard. Relaxing, I reached to grasp the pointing hand and smiled as he looked into my eyes, helpless and searching for something I wasn't sure was even there.

"Roger, I love you. I don't care if that makes me crazy."

Sometimes the thoughts in my head come out in a way that I don't intend.

Roger scowled, eyes darkening, and I was afraid that he would snap at me. But somehow he managed to scrape together his composure, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to do so.

"I'm not a _hallucination_ , Mark."

Isn't that typical, though? Wouldn't a hallucination say that?

"Don't even give me that fucking look."

Flinch. Wide, guilty eyes.

"Just- Jesus Christ, Mark." He pressed his face into his hands, shoulders hunched, seeming to battle with his own frustration for a few long moments before he looked up and glared at me reproachfully. "I can't believe you don't _trust_ me, man. I fucking love you. I'm only staying here for _you_."

That wasn't totally true. I hadn't put too much thought into this- solely because I was afraid that if I did it would provide incriminating evidence against my sanity- but I could see in Roger's eyes that he was scared. Maybe even more so than I was. At least I wasn't in limbo, wasn't invisible in the world I still felt I belonged in, wasn't unable to go farther than a tame kiss with the man I loved.

When I stopped to think about it I squirmed shamefully- Roger had enough on his plate without my insecurity. If I was going to be a good boyfriend, I ought to take his word on this.

Never mind that he might be a figment of my imagination…

"M'sorry," I mumbled, looking up through my eyelashes in the proper apologetic fashion. He softened despite himself at the familiar look, relaxing his shoulders and extending a hand. His eyes searched mine, pleading as I reached up to squeeze his fingers- dammit, how could I say no?

"Please go," he whispered, sounding almost agonized, and I turned to stare back over the busy city, traffic blaring eight stories below. The wind ruffled my hair and I inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm myself.

"… Alright. But- but you have to come with me."

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

"Mr. Cohen?"

"… Yes, that- Mark. I'm Mark."

"Sit down."

My lips twitched into an awkward shadow of a smile as I sat, stiff and already on edge, on the couch facing my new therapist's chair. The woman was young and blonde and I couldn't help but wonder for a moment what she was doing in this business so early in her life. Who wanted to be a psychologist anyways? Dealing with other people's shit all day long. I cautiously rested my hands in my lap, daring to look up from her tasteful black heels to her face. Sharp cheekbones, large eyes framed by thick lashes as light as mine, hair done up in a loose bun as she observed me from over the tops of her glasses. She would have been pretty- except she was giving me one of those disarming smiles that I've grown to hate so very much over the years.

By shrink number five, you start to see a pattern.

When it became apparent that I wasn't about to start any conversations, she sat back in her chair- _artificial, all of it, she's not really relaxed she's just doing her job_ \- and regarded me softly, still smiling. "What brings you here today, Mark?"

"The ghost of boyfriend past. What else." Wow. I know I can be sarcastic, but I'm not normally this testy. Sighing, I glance up apologetically albeit grudgingly, fidgeting in my seat.

"And what do you mean by that?"

Her eyes never left mine, sharp and curious, penetrating me or at the very least trying to. But the pen in her hand was poised to write on that blank pad balanced on her knee and I knew perfectly well that she would be documenting my responses. Is it awful that I'm afraid of leaving behind "incriminating evidence"? After all, I haven't done anything wrong… Not illegal, anyways, and who could ever prove that ghosts weren't real?

But I was supposed to be the sane one. I didn't want any of the psych drugs, of that I was a hundred and ten percent certain.

I faked a smile. "I have paranoid friends. They forced me." Not to mention Roger, who was giving me a _look_ again from across the room, arms folded as he leaned back against the wall and observed the exchange tensely. "If you could just write them a note or something I would really appreciate-"

There was a cool gust and suddenly Roger was beside me, glaring into my soul and I cringed and let out a shaky breath. The woman blinked at me in concern as I blushed and mumbled, "Well maybe there is one thing…"

"I'm a thing now?" I did my best to ignore Roger's dry commentary, half a mind to shove him away as he sat cross-legged beside me, smug and satisfied. My lips twisted downward along with my gut.

"And that is…?" She trailed off, uncertain, less-than-subtle in her attempt to cover up her confusion at my minor psychological breakdown.

Roger reached for my hand and I stayed perfectly still, letting him rest it against my skin, the coolness making me shiver lightly. I met her eyes, blue to blue, and spoke in an even, practiced tone that I was sure would earn another glare from my deceased other.

"My best friend died recently." Well now it's out there. I don't even have time to be embarrassed about blurting it out before she's scratch-scratching at the paper and I stare at the secretive trails of ink as if I can burn holes in the paper with my eyes. What is she _writing?_ Shit. Have I given myself away already?

What if I _am_ certifiably crazy?

The muscles in my face twitch at the thought and I nearly miss what she says next, perturbed at the thought. "How are you dealing with that?" I wonder if I missed something but who even cares if I did? I'm only here because Roger wants me to be. She stares at me in that piercing way of hers and I can't decide if it makes me like her or not.

At the very least the lady is willing to get straight to the point. Not like the other ones I've tried over the years. I don't think she really cares, I'm not _that_ naïve, but…

Suddenly the pastels of the room are stifling me and I want to choke, unable to summon the words as her question hits me like a kick to the gut. How am I dealing with Roger's death? Obviously not well- obviously not at all, because here he is sitting beside me and if he were real shouldn't she be able to see him too? I've never heard of a ghost with selective visibility.

All of the signs point to crazy and I'm just ignoring them. As I always have. Roger is a big help with that one, stroking over the back of my hand in that nervous way that's meant to comfort me but only makes me want to run away and hide.

"Mark?" she asks gently, and I fight the urge to spit fire at her for taking that tone- the one usually reserved for mental patients, for small children or frightened animals- even though I probably look like I need it. "If you need a moment-"

"I'm fine." Great. Now I sound like Roger. _Denial doesn't flatter you, Marky_. The memory surfaces like an old wound, skin suddenly itchy and unbearable to be in, like a woolen sweater. "We can um- continue. If you…"

I'm not really sure how to go on so I just trail off lamely again, gazing at her with apprehensive confusion and I really couldn't care less if I'm frustrating her because these people are paid hourly to be patient- by Joanne, not me, but I would feel guilty wasting her money by being the obedient little child spilling my guts to the woman in the swiveling desk chair, watching as my words were poured onto the page and twisted into some disease or disorder I won't really believe I have anyways.

… Wow. Disregard all that rambling right there. I'm nervous.

"Well… how about we start with this." Obviously unsettled, she smiled at me slightly less brightly and glanced down at her hastily scribbled notes as if they could help her. "What was your friend's name?"

"Roger." It comes out odd, voice twisted in pain, and I glance to Roger again for support. He leans against me and rests his head on my shoulder. I fight the urge to curl my arm around him, knowing that it will only further her suspicions about the state of my mental health. "He… We've known each other since kindergarten."

"Knew," she corrects me absently, which while I'm used to it by now still annoys the shit out of me. Fuck her. Fuck all of them who thought they knew what had happened to Roger. They weren't _there._

"That can't have been easy for you," she's continuing, voice soft, and I'm surprised to find that there's a lump in my throat. Since when do I cry in front of people? Ducking my head again I blink a few times just to be sure none of the traitorous tears have escaped, clearing my throat and nodding.

"I missed him at first."

Shit. I winced at my own slip up as she raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"At first? Don't you miss him now, Mark? You know, it's okay to miss someone once they're gone. Especially someone close to you. You don't have to bottle it up."

"Right." I swallow, hard, as Roger murmurs soothing words into my ear to help me focus. Everything is beginning to blur, my chest tight as I feel a panic attack looming over me and force it back down with sheer force of will. "Miss. I miss him."

And it's true that I miss him, even with his presence right beside me reminding me that he loves me, that he's here, that he won't let the crazy psycholo-bitch get in my head. But it's different. It's not like it was just after he… left. His body, I mean.

No. Nothing could compare to that.

_Crying. I never fucking cry. Never, never, I'm not some fucking sap- I'm supposed to be strong! What's wrong with me?_

" _Oh, honey, Marky, baby it's okay," Maureen is cooing, attempting to pull me into her arms like I'm some CHILD who needs comforting- I tear myself away, arms wrapped around my middle tightly as though that will keep my broken heart from falling right out of my chest._

_None of them know. They don't know ANYTHING._

_The ring hanging innocently from the chain around my neck burns a freezing circle into my collarbone beneath my sweater, a reminder of what I've lost._

_Joanne is crying. Maureen is crying. Roger's mother is crying and mine is too, even though she always claimed she didn't like him- not after the drug incident anyways, after the first hysterical call home because I had no one else to turn to, sobbing into the phone that Roger wasn't breathing, that I think he overdosed-_

" _On what?" she'd asked, shocked to hear her normally withdrawn son so scared and needy at all, hardly absorbing my words._

 _But I knew she loved him. They all loved him and I shouldn't feel so contemptuous of their tears- but none of them loved him like_ I _did._

" _Pookie-"_

" _Just- just FUCK OFF, Maureen!"_

I shook my head, dazed, and found both my therapist and Roger looking at me in concern. Her face was quizzical- his was pained, almost as if he knew exactly what I'd been thinking about. Maybe he did. Maybe he really was in my head?

Sick to my stomach at the idea that I could be imagining all of this, I lurched to my feet, pale and stoic. "Mr. Cohen-" she began in alarm as I strode for the door, shaking, but I shook my head again.

"I have to go," I muttered, pushing my glasses nervously up the bridge of my nose as I pushed the door open roughly and fled out into the waiting room, past a row of raised eyebrows and cautious faces that told me I did indeed look like a crazy person, storming out of my shrink's office. What they must think of me…

Roger was right behind me, and whether he was floating or walking I didn't even care. "Dude, what the hell are you doing?" he hissed, frustrated that he couldn't just drag me back like he would have if he were alive. He snatched at my arm and I shuddered violently at the cold, spinning to face him.

"I just- I can't right now, Roger, I'm _sorry._ "

He gazed at me with agonized green eyes and, without warning, faded away. Halfway down the stairs with no one in sight I sunk to my knees, head in my hands, blinking back the tears more violently than ever.

Memories of the funeral were swirling through my mind, fresh and laced with the unique pain that only a widower can understand, a bitter taste left on my tongue. I was hot, I was cold, everything flashing past in a whirlwind of sound and color.

God, the funeral… I didn't even want to remember.

But I had to. That's when all of this started.

" _Fuck OFF!"_

And she had. Quickly, without even giving me the reproach that I expected and probably deserved, she had pulled Joanne into a corner and left me alone, drying her girlfriend's tears.

I was in pain, but at that point I was sane. I missed Roger like fuck. I wanted him back. But he was dead and I figured nothing could change that.

Sane… I remember sanity.

Halfway through the eulogy I'd written and rewritten and rambled through dry-eyed (not without effort) for three days, he'd appeared.

I remembered it. But not fondly.


	5. November 1976

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Rog and Marky unfortunately belong to no living person and as I am breathing, I shall have to conclude that they don't belong to me.

_November 1976_

Nine-year-old Mark is a lot less adventurous than he had been four years ago. He's also a lot quieter. Which is hard to imagine, considering how introverted he'd already been at five- but it's not his fault, of course. The blame goes entirely to the boys in his fourth grade class.

So what if he didn't like girls yet? He's _nine_ for Pete's sake! He mutters this to himself as he ventures home from the bus stop, a trip that his mother had only recently started letting him take all alone when he had begged and pleaded for hours on end. Cindy was, understandably, not allowed to babysit anymore.

Besides, he was nine and _obviously_ old enough now to think for himself. So he had told her, haughty, hands on his hips- one of the first times he'd spoken in a week after _the incident_.

What other choice had she had? To Mark, it was a victory won- to his mother it was a sacrifice she made in order to keep her little boy happy, help him forget what had been done to him. There was no other option, no way out. The parent of an introverted child bears the entire world on their shoulders- and said child was totally oblivious. He had his own problems to deal with, even at this age.

Even with Roger by his side, his favorite person in the world for the past four years of his life, Mark was going to have a hard time ignoring the bruises he bore.

Speaking of Roger… Perhaps he was too old to be accompanied across the street, but he wasn't too old for playdates. "Arrangements of a friendly nature," he would say, pushing his new glasses up his nose like he was the smartest little thing in the world, and Cindy would roll her eyes and mutter some derogatory comment about how Roger was the only one who he "arranged" anything with anyways. He'd stick out his tongue. And the sibling conflict would continue until Roger came barreling in, eyes alight with excitement, distracting Mark completely from the issue at hand.

"Marky?" Roger calls from the doorway. The strawberry-blonde drops what he's doing- which happens to be fiddling with his Gameboy Color, which hasn't worked in a month because one of those mean boys smashed it on the sidewalk and now there's a scratch on the side longer than his middle finger (never mind why he knew that)- and races to the door.

Nine is a tough age, Mark has decided. School hasn't been nearly as easy as he had hoped. Sure, he was smart- but he had bigger things to worry about than cursive and fractions. And Roger, sadly enough, is just old enough to be in the grade above him, effectively killing off his last vestiges of hope that someday he might be graced with the presence of his best and only friend in his classroom every day. He has to cherish every moment he can steal with the older boy, because he lived way too far away to walk to his house and Roger didn't like him to come over to his place anyways for whatever reason.

It wasn't Mark's fault that he didn't see the signs for what they were. He figured that, like all boys his age, Roger's bruises were the product of his own exploits and adventures- and if his mother had some too, if she looked ready to cry most of the time, well that wasn't his business.

Mark hadn't yet met Roger's father. He got the feeling that he wasn't going to.

As it was, though, Roger came over every Friday after school and stayed the night and that was fine by him. Far better than sitting alone in his room with a book like the nerd he's quickly become, or his math homework, and dwelling on the events of the past week.

The other boy tossed his drawstring bag full of spare clothes into the corner of his room and Mark shut the door- another new privilege, for which he was thankful as he would hate to have it open when he came home battered and emotionally damaged and ready to cry on the other four days of the week- and hopped up onto his bed with a grin plastered across his face wide enough to crack it in two. Roger hopped up beside him, as dinged up as ever but wearing the same goofy kind of smile that made Mark happy to be alive.

"So what do ya wanna do?" he asked, full of mischievous energy. After their first meeting Mark had quickly realized that the death of his cat was the _only_ thing that put him in a downer. Contrary to his first assumption, the darker-haired boy with the dirt perpetually smudged on his cheek and the scabby knees and the too-big sweaters was quite the troublemaker. And Mark, far too meek to say no, always ended up getting caught in the whirlwind of trouble he left in his wake.

Not that it wasn't worth it. Not that it wasn't probably the most fun he'd ever had in his life. Smearing Cindy's bedroom walls with her own lipstick and coloring over the "stupid" parts of the newspaper with Crayola marker (which happened to be the sports section- Mr. Cohen was less than thrilled) were only two of thousands of ways that Roger had taught Mark to be a pest.

If anyone could pull Mark Cohen, introvert, out of his shell it was Roger Davis, mischief-maker extraordinaire.

"I dunno…" Shrugging, Mark picked his Gameboy up again and continued whacking it against his palm like he'd been doing before Roger showed up, frustrated with the lack of response. Looked like it was broken… great. "Something fun? We could-"

"Hey- what happened to this?" Roger interrupted, reaching out and plucking the small contraption right out of Mark's hands, tilting his head in curiosity as he turned it over in his larger ones. "It was fine the last time I came over."

Blushing furiously, the blonde boy swatted at him anxiously. "Hey. Give it back."

"Did you break it? Isn't your mom mad?" Roger scoffed and held it away, remembering Mrs. Cohen's reaction the first time he had come over and tipped over a vase in the living room with his 'rambunctious flailing.'

"No… It's fine, leave it," Mark mumbled, suddenly self-conscious. Roger was in the fifth grade, in a classroom a whole hallway's length away from his. He had no idea what Mark went through. The jibes, the socks to the arm or wherever else they could reach. What if he found out? Would he call Mark a wimp, too, because he cried when he got beat up?

Little boys were _mean_ \- Roger didn't count, or he didn't think so, but the others were.

Green eyes narrowed in suspicion, Roger returned the handheld device to him. "Did someone else break it then?"

"Maybe…" There weren't a lot of ways to avoid the question so Mark just shrugged, averting his eyes and swallowing nervously. He wasn't going to tell Roger _anything_. Nope. He was his only friend, and he wasn't about to lose him. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal my ass!" he exclaimed, starting to sound angry. Mark flinched away, pressing his back to the headboard and staring at Roger apprehensively. He was rapidly transforming into a ball of unadulterated ten-year-old fury, lip curling and face turning red. It wasn't the first time he'd heard him swear, of course, but the first time he thought it might be directed at him.

Oh, no. Here it comes. _He's gonna think I'm such a wimp…_

"Th-they didn't mean to," he tried to explain, blinking back tears at the thought of facing Roger's contempt. "They just- they- they do this a lot…"

"Who! Give me names!" the other boy demanded hotly, looking abruptly ready to cry himself. He grabbed Mark's arm and jabbed at a dark bruise, making him wince. "Did they hit you too? I'll kill em!"

And like that, all of the bespectacled boy's fears washed away. He felt an involuntary smile spreading over his face, the tears in the corners of his eyes threatening to spill over. _Oh come on, don't be a crybaby too…_

Roger didn't hate him. Roger didn't even think he was weak! He licked his lips and shook his head, still smiling widely.

"It's okay. You don't have to."

"Yes I do! Mark! _Mark._ You can't just let people hit you-" Abruptly, Roger cut off, rubbing his own arm with a brooding expression as he stared down at the bedspread. Sensing that he'd hit a nerve, Mark automatically reached out for his hand the way he'd thought he shouldn't four years ago. Roger took it gratefully, didn't even call him a fag-

_In your face, dad._

Mark smiled weakly, pressing up against his friend's side. Rarely did he let anyone touch him, but when it was Roger it was okay. Roger wouldn't tell. Roger would never hurt him.

"Maybe on the last day of school I'll let you beat em up."

Relaxing slightly, a smile blooming across his face again, Roger looked up gratefully and squeezed his hand. "Promise?"

"Swear on my life."


	6. So Damn Clever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Has RENT ever been mine? Refresh my memory.

_June 6_ _th_ _, 1994_

They think that I can't hear them talking about me.

"But he's been acting really oddly lately-"

"Well, he's _Mark_ , Maureen, the guy's a little quirky as it is! It doesn't mean that he's crazy, but his best friend died-"

"Joanne! Shh! Keep your voice down!"

"Right, well-"

I'm sipping at a mug of green tea in the living room, legs curled under me on the couch pretending to watch whatever the fuck it is that's playing on the television before me, but the sound is muted as I strain my ears to listen to their conversation. It feels unnaturally quiet here, although if I'm being truthful the loft is even quieter- practically dead, except for my own soft breaths. Outside, the late afternoon sun is hidden behind marshmallow-fluff clouds and I can't help but think that it would be a perfect day to walk down to the cemetery and visit Roger.

But of course, that was why I was here, wasn't it? To talk about Roger, 'fill them in' on my appointment, which I'd love to tell them was a complete and utter waste of my time.

I know that I can't actually do that. As aggravated as I am about their badgering and all of the tabs they've been keeping on me, Maureen and Joanne are my friends and I can't worry them. I need to step up, as usual, and assure them that yes, I'm fine, and no, I won't be going back to that doctor of theirs. They should have known better than to send me to a shrink in the first place.

Sure, they think I'm going crazy- and maybe I am a little bit out of it- but they don't have to be so very obvious about it.

Now they've lowered their voices and it's hard to make out the words, although I can still grasp the gist of the conversation. Marky is hurting, Marky needs help, he needs guidance- bullshit. I wish they'd step back and realize that I'm a big boy. I don't need to be taken care of.

I'm a grown man, not a child. But at the same time, to them, I'm "Marky."

I wonder if maybe they'd be better about this if they adopted a damn kid and left me alone for once. But of course I can't _say_ that…

Beside me, Roger is silent as well, knees pulled to his chest as his eyes bore holes in the wall between the kitchen and the living room. He's just as aggravated as me about all of this, although he's not going to say it because he had been the one who made me go in the first place. He says that I'm not crazy but I'm not sure who to believe anymore. That shrink lady had certainly looked at me like I was crazy. Same way my sister used to when I had those few and far between temper tantrums. The same way my father had looked at me, a long time ago.

I don't really want to think about that, though. Not right now. I have bigger things to worry about.

Absently, I reach for his hand and stroke my thumb over the knuckle, once again marveling at the papery feeling of his ghostly skin. Sometimes, when I doubt myself, I'm simply amazed at how painstakingly my mind has crafted this imaginary Roger for my comfort. He's not exactly as I remember him at all- he's exactly as I would imagine him to be were he to come back from the dead. Cleansed, as it were. Offensive as ever, but with a strange new solemnness about him that spoke volumes about what he'd learned in the process of dying.

I tended to overthink things, and if this was just another one of those things I wouldn't be too surprised- still. I snuck another glance up to Roger's stoic face as I tentatively touched him, fingers crawling up to his wrist. He finally snapped his gaze away from the wall.

"What?" he snapped, a look of instant regret flashing across his face as I flinched. I lowered my eyes, stung, but I probably deserved it. I needed to stop thinking like this.

He had to be real. I _had_ to believe that he was real. Otherwise I was just another pathetic piece of bohemian trash that the city had finally driven to insanity.

Otherwise, Roger really _was_ gone and I was compensating by committing the slowest form of suicide.

After a moment he visibly forced himself to relax, smiling somewhat agonizingly at me and reaching to tilt my chin up. I saw what he was doing and lifted my head before he could try and fail, knowing that his inability to _really_ touch me was a sore spot for him.

"Don't lettem get to you," he whispered, cupping my jaw with one cool shadow of a hand. I found myself nodding even as they started to come closer, voices getting louder, clearer. I just kept my eyes locked with his, desperate for some sort of confirmation. "You're as sane as I am."

How sane could he possibly be, trapped between two worlds? But before I could really start to worry about it I had a new problem on my hands- Maureen and Joanne had entered the room, and were both watching me in a sort of horrified fascination as I leaned into my invisible boyfriend. My face immediately flamed with color and I jerked away, staring up at them innocently and bringing my mug to my lips.

"… So, what did you ask me over for?" I asked, smiling lamely. I wasn't fooling anyone but the effort had to count somewhere, someday. Joanne was the first to speak.

"Oh, we just wanted to ask you about your appointment… You sounded pretty shaken up on the phone." She smiled falsely and I was impressed with the smoothness of the lie as she sat on the opposite couch, fingering the beige fabric in a nervous gesture that most people probably wouldn't have noticed. But of course, I notice everything- I smiled wryly, tilting my head and lowering the mug again. Maureen sat, uncharacteristically uncertain, beside her fiancée and fixed her eyes on me like she was scared that I would fade away.

I had to admit, I was sometimes curious if that was possible. When you spent so much time dwelling on the dead, on the ghost of love, was it conceivable that you could slip into the realm that they inhabited, leaving just the husk of your former body behind?

Was that why people went into comas? Was that why they died, apparently of grief, after the death of a loved one? Was I getting slowly sicker as Roger took over my mind, became my newest obsession?

Was I going to die?

It was this sort of tangent that I didn't like to go on and I had to swallow, hard, and refocus in order to form an articulate answer.

"Oh- it was fine. I don't think it's for me." My smile was shaky at best and I took a deep breath, using my two first fingers to push my glasses up my nose and avoiding both of their eyes. I knew that this probably wasn't helping my case- still, I'd rather not risk it. The eyes are, supposedly, windows to the soul; could I honestly say that I wasn't worried that they would take one look and know everything?

Could I honestly say that I haven't been doing the same thing to Roger these past few days?

"Well Mark, you never know-" she was wheedling, chewing her lip as Maureen clutched at her hand, strangely silent. "- You might just need some time to get used to it… Or you could see a different therapist, there are so many options-"

"I really don't think so." I like to think that I wasn't being frigid, but I could see the metaphorical icicles forming from the tip of her nose as her mouth tightened.

"Mark." Ah, no… I'd provoked her. Now I was going to be chewed out by a lawyer- what, I thought to myself sarcastically, were the chances of winning that one? "Just listen to me. Hear me out. Can you do that, at least? For me?"

Grudgingly, I nodded. It was Joanne- she was reasonable. Logical. Cautious. We got along just fine most of the time and despite my delicate situation I didn't want to compromise my relationship with her. No, not even for Roger.

I would do anything for him, but there was only so far I could go when I was living and he was dead.

In the meantime, I sat back and braced myself to endure yet another lecture on properly handling my grief. I'd gotten them from everyone: there was Maureen with her constant calls, her high-pitched insistence that I see a doctor, that I get out of the goddamn _loft_ , her worried looks just like the ones she was giving me now; there was Paul, and also Steve, both from life support and both grimly optimistic in a way that I didn't quite understand always bumping into me on the street or dropping by "just to check on me". So many people that I barely knew or not at all, all trying to make some difference in my life- I suppose I just feel bad for not really meaning my 'thank you's.

It wasn't that I didn't appreciate it their concern, but I didn't exactly _like_ it. All that it meant in my mind were more eyes focused on me- and no introvert likes being under a spotlight.

Joanne seemed to gather her thoughts, setting her shoulders and disentangling her hand from Maureen's to fold them in her lap and gaze at him levelly with dark, serious eyes. "Mark, we're worried about you. You haven't been yourself recently."

"Who am I, then?" I tried to joke, and I glanced discreetly to the side to see Roger mouthing the same words with a faint smirk. While that was disconcerting, I tried not to blow it out of proportion. Joanne gave me a withering look to which I ducked my head, cowed.

"You know what I mean, Mark. Don't get defensive with me." Pausing, she looked to the ceiling as if praying to God for the right words. I knew the feeling.

" _Mark, hey man, I- Mark? What are you doing down there?"_

I had paused, self-conscious, and looked up reluctantly to meet Roger's incredulous eyes from my place kneeling beside my bed. I was nineteen and still scared stiff of the city, and he hadn't been around to see me pick up this particular habit in the past year or two. _"Um… Praying?"_

" _Praying?"_ The way that he wrinkled his nose had struck me as adorable even far before I had known I was in love with him. _"What the fuck for? Hey, ask the big man for beer then. We're almost out of alcohol and if we don't get some cash flow in here soon then I'm going to be painfully sober by tomorrow night."_

I couldn't help but smile goofily at his usual antics. _"Oh… Alright."_

He had hunkered down beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders casually. _"God, you're so goddamn passive sometimes. Stop it."_ He paused, rolling the words around in his head for once instead of spitting them out as they occurred to him- as far as I knew, I was the only one that he ever did that for. _"What's up?"_

The memory was clouding my mind and I struggled to pay attention as Joanne began talking again. "You have to admit that you've been acting strangely… You can't deny that you've been spending too much time alone. Mark, I haven't seen you film anything in weeks-"

"I still film." My voice sounded oddly thick and I swallowed the lump that I wasn't aware had been growing in my throat. The lie stared me in the face like a beacon- _there's something wrong here, Mark._

It was true. I really hadn't been filming much, if at all- my camera was currently gathering dust on my nightstand beside the alarm clock that I had so far managed to restrain myself from violently disposing of. (barely.) It wasn't like me. I really ought to be paying more attention, being more careful. It was a dead giveaway.

I really wasn't doing well, was I?

Speaking of which, more memories of Roger were resurfacing, the scene playing and replaying and becoming harder to ignore as this tense conversation extended.

" _Nothing…"_ God, I'd always been the worst liar. No wonder Maureen and Joanne could see right through me. Roger had awarded me a snort and patted me on the back.

" _Right… You know, you can actually tell me shit, Cohen. It's not like I'm your best friend or anything."_ He'd deadpanned. I had gone pink faster than the speed of light, guiltily nodding.

" _I- I just- I don't have the right words… I just wish- I don't know."_

"… _Is this about your parents?"_

"… _Maybe…"_

Another reason that I missed Roger, even when he was right beside me, watching me with those sad, darker-than-ever green eyes like he knows what I'm thinking. He was always so intuitive, always knew just how to comfort me and still manage to be an asshole- he still tries, probably way harder than he ever had to before, but it's just not the same.

I want to feel his warmth, his breath on my ear, and unless I imagine it I'm never going to again.

He wants me to live, but I can't lie. The thought has crossed my mind. What if, when I was dead, I could finally touch him again? What if that was the answer? If I were to just speed up the process… If I were to say, take those pills that they'd offered me… If I were to take just a few too many- but no, Roger would kill me. Obviously not literally.

Joanne's hand on my shoulder snapped me out of my reverie and I flinched, unused to this much human contact. She looked into my eyes with concern. "Mark?"

"What?" I probably shouldn't have sounded so defensive, voice cracking. Maureen finally broke her unusual silence, absolutely devastated- I hadn't noticed the silent tears streaking her cheeks until now, but all of a sudden the dark streaks of mascara down her cheeks were all too evident. She sobbed, covering her mouth with her hand.

"M-Mark- Mark we just- we just want you to get _better._ "

I hoped that I didn't look as awkward as I felt, wondering if it were in my jurisdiction to go over there and attempt- most likely unsuccessfully- to comfort her. Joanne saved me the trouble, immediately scurrying back to her lover's side and taking her into her arms, whispering soothing things into her ear. I watched uneasily; in my own ear, Roger was muttering. "Mark, don't. Don't let them do this to you. She's going to make you go back-"

I resisted the urge to snap at him. _Weren't you the one who was so keen on me going, a few days ago? Weren't you the one who made me?_ There was no point in accusing him. Roger would just scowl, brush it off- or worse, he'd disappear again and leave me alone with these two emotional women. My friends.

When had I stopped being the one who took care of them? When had I become the problem?

I'd rarely ever seen Maureen like this. She was absolutely hysterical- I should have known, of course, that she would be the first to crack. She had depended on me so heavily, even after our breakup- even now, when she had Joanne, she was staring at me pleadingly, voice wavering as she begged tearfully, "P-please Mark- please. We just- I just need you- I need you to get better. I love you. I need-"

She cut off as another ugly sob rose in her chest and I averted my eyes, ashamed to be silent. Roger's ethereal touch on my shoulders, attempting to knead them, attempting to ease the tension in every line of my body, was nothing but disconcerting at the moment. I could feel Joanne's conflict from across the room. Should she glare at me, angry and frustrated, because I've hurt them both? For upsetting Maureen this way? Should she soften, continue in her attempt at reason?

Softly, deadly, Joanne met my eyes and I couldn't describe the nervous jolt of energy that followed every capillary as she searched mine. This was it. I'd allowed her a look in the window and she could never unsee it… I truly was fucked now, wasn't I?

I turned to Roger for help, breaking the stare and slumping in relief, whispering to him and grasping for his papery hands. "Roger, please. Please just- just- show them. Please…"

_Don't let them think I'm crazy…_

_God…_

_Don't let me be crazy._

"W-Who are you talking to?" Maureen choked. "Mark?" My eyes widened- I hadn't known that I had been speaking out loud. _Shit._

"I- I wasn't-" I choked, terrified all at once that they had figured me out. Roger hunched over me protectively, as if he could shield me. I wanted to whack him upside the head and tell him to go home, leave this to me- what was a hallucination, a ghost, whatever he was, going to do for me now?

Get me institutionalized, probably. With my luck…

Maureen's sobs only got louder, deafening in my ears. God, I couldn't do this. I really couldn't. It didn't matter anymore if I was sane or insane, just that all of this noise, all of this pressure, all of the doubt was going to drive me there either way.

_Why can't you see him? WHY can't you SEE him?_

I twisted to look at Roger pleadingly again. He was staring at his own hand, shaking before him, eyebrows pulled together in concentration. Like he was trying… trying… trying so hard he looked like he was about to cry, or pull his hair out- which I'd actually seen him do, once, back when he was still strung out on heroin and always right on the edge, balanced precariously on the fine point of a knife. Trying…

Failing.

Fuck.

They couldn't see him. They were never _going_ to see him. I was alone… Alone with this person, this shadow of a person, and was that really worth it? Was it worth my _life?_ The crushing realization must have been clear on my face because Joanne grimaced sympathetically and reached out for my hand. Against my better judgment, I shakily took it, gazing at the contrast of our skin tones dully against the ruby red of the carpet between us.

"I don't think that you're crazy, Mark. But I think that you need help."

MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR

The entire exchange had given me a bad feeling.

I still couldn't believe that I'd done what I'd done. Admitted what I had. Allowed them to make another _damn_ appointment, with the same blonde shrink and everything.

I wished that I could still be the rock that I'd always been, the anchor, but apparently that wasn't meant to be.

Roger's accusatory eyes were burning into me as I strode into the loft, tossing my keys onto the metal table in the kitchen. I tightened my mouth but said nothing, didn't even turn, waiting for him to make the first move. Impatient, impulsive as ever, he began hardly a moment after I'd closed the door.

"What the fuck, Mark."

I whipped around, my heart racing, my mouth twisted into a scowl. For once, I wasn't going to take this. I wasn't just some puppet, just because I loved him, just because he loved me so much- how did I even know he was real anymore?

How did I _know?_

"What. What do you _want,_ Roger?" I demanded, not in any mood to be toyed with. His eyes darkened as he strode closer, sneakers making no echo in the dusty silence surrounding us thickly, preternaturally so. He bared his teeth.

"I'm not _fucking_ kidding, Cohen. What have you done? Do you _understand_ what you've done?"

"What? What have I done, Roger?" Tears threatened but I blinked them back skillfully, glad to have some of the strict control back that I'd been missing recently. That was my problem- that had been my problem, all along, and I'd just been too afraid to see it. "Why are you mad at me? Because I opened my fucking mouth?

 _Roger_ was my problem. Roger, who was probably, realistically, a figment of my own masochistic fucking imagination.

"No- don't do that!" He jabbed a finger at my chest and I was surprised to find that it actually hurt, a shard of ice in my sternum, making me stagger backwards. My eyebrows shot up, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling, and he seemed to be struggling with his own emotions, panting and getting right in my face until we could have been sharing breath if he had actually been breathing any. "Don't you pin this on me! It's your own fault-"

"I can't help it if they think I'm _crazy_ , Roger, can you really blame them-?"

"Yes! I can! And I am!" He threw his arms up with a short, hysterical laugh, shaking his head and closing his eyes. He looked like I felt- at the end of his rope. I still couldn't help choking on my own incredulous laughter.

"You wanted me to go, remember? You _made_ me go. Where's the support?"

"You went once- it didn't work out. You don't need that shit, Mark. You don't." A note of desperation snuck into his voice, one that once again only I would have heard whether or not he was alive. I felt myself softening despite myself, dropping my eyes. "I don't want them to make you think you're crazy… I don't want-"

_To lose you._

I heard the end of his sentence even after he cut off, cringing, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels like he had no idea what to even say anymore. It had always been so easy to see, when he was upset, exactly what he was thinking- I could read him like a book, watching his expression twist this way and that.

No wonder he had changed his mind so quickly. I was getting tired. He was getting tired. With both of us so tired, so strained, something was bound to snap-

It might be me.

"Roger." I sighed, wandering towards him. He shook his head jerkily but I wrapped my arms carefully around him anyways, whispering against his cool neck, "I don't want to lose you, either."

He took a deep breath, wrapping his arms around my waist instinctively and pulling me closer. There was a physical ache growing between us, a combined lament that we couldn't do this right, not how we wanted- the more I touched him the more numb I became, the more abnormal it seemed. I shivered and he dropped me like I was on fire, regarding me uneasily.

I broke the silence with an awkward cough, toeing the ground. "I'm going, you know."

"You don't have to-" he protested, tensing all over again, but I shook my head with a resigned slump to my shoulders.

"They heard me, Roger. They heard me talking to thin air. Do you honestly think that I'm going to get away with that?"

There was no answer, and when I looked up his frown had deepened, his eyes cast sullenly at the ground. Before my very eyes he began to fade, melancholy rolling off of him.

"Wait- Roger, don't go yet!" I reached out to him, desperate, and was shrugged off without a moment's hesitation.

_Run away, hit the road, don't commit…_

But he'd committed to me.

He glanced up once more to meet my eyes sadly, and then he was gone. I stared at the empty spot on the floor that he had been standing on, unsure of what I believed anymore. _Roger…_ My Roger. He would be back, or so I hoped. But probably not today…

I reached up and fingered the silver ring at my throat, swallowing hard, feeling as though I'd been nailed to the floor.

When had everything gotten so complicated?


	7. March 1980

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Rog and Marky still aren't mine, despite my best efforts. God damn it. I really need to get on that…

_March 1980_

A Friday night finds Mark Cohen showing up, disheveled and trying to pretend that he's not upset, at his best friend's front door with a bookbag slung over his shoulder and a toothbrush in his hand. It's the night of the spring semi-formal and he wouldn't be here if he wasn't feeling quite so dejected.

He really, really didn't want to be that dork who showed up alone and stayed that way, watching the dancing couples from the corner all night long.

No. He _refused_ to be that dork.

And anyways, he's only in seventh grade. What was the point of gathering a bunch of twelve-year-olds into a cafeteria full of streamers and glitter and watching them bop around in stiff, uncomfortable clothing to music that they didn't even understand yet? But as much as he tried to convince himself that it was lame, that it was pointless, that he didn't _want_ to go anyways, he still does.

It still hurts to be rejected, as young as he is.

Holly was the first girl that he'd ever had a crush on, or at least he thought that he did. Cindy always teased him for not having crushes on girls and he had decided to pick one just to shut her up, and Holly had been almost the first girl he'd seen after he'd decided, so maybe he didn't like her _that_ much but she could at least have been nice to him about it. Right?

He hadn't deserved to be _slapped_ just because he couldn't spit out a simple sentence without stammering… He didn't deserve to be slapped just because he was kind of a nerd.

Roger opens the door with a grin, engulfing him in one of those bear hugs that Mark really, really appreciates right now, and nuzzles his neck affectionately. "Marky!" he crows. No matter how old they get, Mark hopes that Roger never stops greeting him this way.

He'd been afraid, as they moved up the ladder to middle school, to cliques and girls and block schedules, that Roger was going to drift away. Become the "cool kid" that he had the potential to be, what with all of the girls eyeing him now across the lawn as they walked across the school grounds, batting their eyelashes. Bleach his hair maybe, like some of the other eight graders, and stop talking to Mark altogether. He hadn't.

Maybe he needed to trust Roger a little bit more. He'd never been that much of a jackass _before._ Why would he start now?

"Hey," he murmurs back with a weak smile, lacking his usual enthusiasm as he half-heartedly wraps his arms around his friend. Almost instantly, Roger seems to sense that something is wrong, pulling back with an expression reminiscent of that of a bloodhound. He narrows his green, green eyes tilts his head.

"What happened."

It's not a question. Mark is reminded, with a wince, of just how protective Roger can be when his best and only friend was threatened. He never _did_ get a chance to beat those boys up, the ones that to this day torment Mark whenever he's alone and defenseless in the hall, but he never reports back to Roger about the incidents for fear of his expulsion.

Seeing their bloody noses once wasn't worth never seeing Roger during school hours again, as few and far between as those moments are. It was the only thing that got him up in the morning, sometimes, when he knows he has a math test and a study hall with older kids who like to shoot spitballs at him when the teacher isn't looking and girls that tease and tug his hair just because he's shy, because he won't pay attention to any of them when he has a book to read and homework to complete.

That wasn't really important right now, though. What's important is that he's a really terrible liar and he's never bothered to try with Roger- and isn't sure that he should.

"Nothing." He shrugged, brushing past him on his way into the house. Roger follows on his heels like a trained puppy, poking and prodding insistently, a hound on the trail.

"Tell meeeee," he whined, attempting to pull Mark back towards him, but the bespectacled boy just digs his heels in and grits his teeth, mumbling unintelligibly. Roger's face twists in confusion, nose scrunched up, asking, "What?"

"Holly didn't want to go to the dance with me," he sighs, slightly louder, not meeting Roger's eyes. At least, as far as he knows, Roger doesn't hit girls- his mother would certainly slap him, even as tired as she usually is. Still, the other boy looks as outraged as he possibly can in an oversized hoodie with a smudge across his cheek that could very well be mud. Mark wasn't even going to question how he'd gotten it there.

"Why the fuck not?" Mark winced a little at his vulgarity, trying to form a reproachful frown but ending up with a rather embarrassing pout. "You're a perfectly eligible bachelor-"

"Someone's been doing their vocab packets," he noted absently as Roger disregarded him, continuing his rant.

"You're awesome, Mark! Take it from me. Awesome," he repeated, shaking his head in apparent disgust with this girl that Mark had mentioned a total of once. "You're like, the coolest person I know. Don't even listen to that bitch."

"I know…" It's easier just to agree with him, and he runs a hand awkwardly through his reddish hair just to do something with his shaky hands. "I guess I just- kind of wanted to go."

So there, he said it. It probably made him lame. Roger would probably scoff at him. But surprisingly, the other boy remained silent, and when Mark looked up curiously he seems to be contemplating something.

"… You know, I could always go with you. You know. Not in a gay way or anything, but- I don't think I have any dressy clothes…" Offhand, he just shakes his head in annoyance. His hair has begun to grow out- Mark vividly remembers the fit he threw over his most recent haircut, a month ago, and realizes that his mother must have been too exhausted to hold out on the issue. During this brief tangent Roger manages to bound halfway up the stairs.

"What-" Mark is too shocked to form an actual sentence, blinking up uncomprehendingly as Roger disappears upstairs, calling.

"I'll go check anyways!"

It takes the smaller boy another half a minute to understand what's just happened, what Roger has just offered, and all of the things that it might mean. It takes him another half a minute- standing dumbly and listening to the sounds of Roger's cursing and rummaging from above him- to process the implications of going to the dance with another boy, hardly graspable at all to a twelve-year-old in a straight-laced Jewish town, and by the time he's wrapped his head around the fact that Roger actually likes him that much the other boy has already reappeared before him, lounging against the stairs, grimacing apologetically.

"Sorry, man. I'm poor," he offers with a weak laugh. It seems to actually bother him, and Mark springs into action without thinking, smiling shyly.

"Would you really do that for me?" He winces at the way his voice cracks- fucking _puberty_ , he thinks resentfully- and wonders if Roger will find that question in itself kind of gay, but the darker-haired boy is already rolling his eyes.

"Why wouldn't I? I'm way cooler than that bitch." Smirking, he holds his arms out. "Lettem call me what they want. They don't know what they're missing… I get you all to myself."

He's flushed by the time that he finishes his little speech, but unlike the opposite situation Mark knows that he isn't allowed to comment on it or risk hurting Roger's fragile, yet obnoxious, pride. He just smiles, feeling his heart twist strangely in his chest, and he knows that later this warmth that seems to pour out of him is going to get him in trouble.

For now, though, he can forget that it's probably not normal to feel quite so infatuated with your best friend. It's Roger, and when it comes to Roger, he finds that most things can be excused.

"Yeah? Yeah, that's… I like it like that. Thanks." Biting his lip he draws closer, basking in the strong presence of the only person who'd ever bothered with him. Roger's smile is, somehow, ten times as blinding as his own as he takes him by the wrist- never the hand, of course- and leads him upstairs.

They never ended up at the dance, but Mark didn't feel like he was missing out on anything.


	8. Little Lift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have yet to pry the rights to RENT from Jonathan's ghostly fingers.

_June 17_ _th_ _, 1994_

So, apparently I'm insane. Several shades of it. That doesn't come as much of a surprise to me, but it's still somehow enough to keep me silent and solemn, pale and withdrawn as I stand idly by and watch Maureen accept my prescription blister pack of anti-psychotic medication.

 _Clozapine_ , it reads. I'm not sure if that's the brand name or the scientific name or whatever the fuck it is but I can't stop staring at the tiny italics, staring like they'll blur and change, like this is all a dream. I've been waiting for some sign that this is all a dream for two days now. My psyche hasn't humored me.

The past week and some has been something like the worst of my life. I probably say that a lot- at the very least I have since Roger's death.

_Roger's death…_

The words have an entirely new impact on me since my diagnosis. Yes, diagnosis, but I definitely don't want to think about that. I'm crazy, that's what they're telling me. They can sugarcoat it all they want. It still leaves a pit in my stomach, and Roger is still conspicuously absent, and you'd think at a time like this he'd be all over me begging me to listen, to ignore those white-coated jackasses and just trust him. No such luck. I _want_ to be convinced but he hasn't even tried.

Words cannot describe the betrayal I feel right now,

Now more than ever I need him to come to me, badger me incessantly, follow me around the store like my own personal, invisible puppy. I need to hear him snap at me, whine at me- I _need_ him to be there and he's not. I know he's not the most responsible person in the world- or ghost in limbo- but you'd think he'd recognize when the situation was dire.

Instead I'm left with Maureen, under control now and giving me a smile so plastic I was tempted to check for a "Made in China" stamp. I resisted the urge, too dazed to be sarcastic. My eyes darted around periodically, but Roger- or the apparition I'd come to know as Roger- was nowhere to be seen.

"Do you want anything else while we're here?" she asks, obviously making an effort not to sound meek. I wonder when I became her son and shake my head stiffly, unable to muster the motivation to snap at her like I want to.

I had an idea that I might be slightly depressed, but schizophrenic? No! There had to have been a mistake. It wasn't as if they did any _formal_ testing on me to prove it. No blood had been taken, nothing had been cut open- all observational. I won't claim to know much about psychotic disorders or whatever the hell this is classified as, but I would have thought they'd need some more concrete evidence.

You can't just dope up your patients without a real reason, can you?

Medication is something I shy away from in the first place. I don't take vitamins, let alone prescription meds. Roger used to pop vitamin B tablets with a Coke in the morning and be rarin' to go. He swore by it, but I wouldn't touch the things. Now look where I was. Stuck with the quickly warming plastic of a package of questionable pills in my hands, anxiety brewing in my stomach, tightening my chest. Stuck with Maureen, stuck with Joanne, and I wonder if maybe I had just taken the damn vitamins I wouldn't have been dragged into this mess.

Now that it was the weekend they'd deemed it appropriate for me to start my new treatment, and I was far less than enthusiastic. Dr. Harding, the young blonde woman I'd seen for the first visit, was happy as can be to see me back in her office. I, however, was not impressed.

Why should I be? Why should I be enthusiastic about a visit to the shrink I didn't think I needed when I couldn't muster the energy to do anything else?

I couldn't even bring myself to visit Roger's grave in a last ditch effort to reincarnate my presumed hallucination. He was gone; they weren't about to let me anywhere near him, not even his marker, when they knew that I was seeing his ghost.

I wish I could decide which one it was, but none of the evidence was conclusive enough for me. Or maybe I just didn't want to let go of that last pathetic, fluttering shred of hope clinging to the fraying rope of my sanity.

I don't even remember following Maureen out of the pharmacy, too caught up in my spinning thoughts, the same ones that have been circling in the confines of my skull for days now. I can't believe the words haven't found some way to manifest yet, into physical substance in order to leak out of my ears, escape their prison. I can't believe I'm spending time thinking about thinking about something and I try to force myself to listen to the words streaming in an endless nervous babble from Maureen's pouty lips as she leads me to the car by the hand, like I'm five.

"… and the tablets dissolve in your mouth so the doctor said you didn't need to take water with it unless you want to- Mark, are you listening? This is important."

She frowned reproachfully, stopping when we reached the car to turn to me and check whether or not I was listening to her instructions. I just nodded, silent as always, my free hand twitching without the familiar weight of my camera. It wasn't that they'd taken it from me, it was that I hadn't thought to bring it- how stupid am I? Of _course_ I would need it for a simple trip to the drugstore, of _course_ I couldn't last that long trapped in my own head-

"Mark!" Distress was creeping into her tone and she shook my arm, peering into my eyes as though searching for me- like I'd gotten lost. Like I _was_ crazy. I jerked away, partially stung by her doubt and partially because I still remembered my earlier theory, my fear that my eyes were like windows, that they would see what was behind them if I let them get a good enough look.

I'd tried staring at myself in the mirror, once or twice, for hours- long enough that the strain of focusing had given me a headache. Try as I might, I hadn't been able to find anything abnormal about the man in the mirror except for the constipated look on his face.

But you can never be too careful.

"Mark?" I could see that she was about to start panicking and, horrified at the thought of another crying fit like the one almost two weeks ago that had landed me in this situation, I smiled weakly to show her that I was okay.

"I just really want to go home," I lied, gritting my teeth, but she swallowed it with an overwhelming sense of relief and opened the door for me, ushering me into the car. Joanne twisted in the driver's seat to smile at me encouragingly. It seemed like the only type of smile she'd given me since the diagnosis- I fought not to make another face as I thought the word- and I couldn't help feeling like there was something wrong with that.

Or was there something wrong with me?

"It's gonna be okay, Mark," she promised as Maureen and I buckled ourselves in, settling in for the drive home through rush hour traffic, and again I nodded.

Home. If only that's where I were going.

I'd never wanted to drag my feet up those seven flights of steps more than I did right now.

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

It takes me three tries to successfully evade Maureen's hawk-like gaze and get a few minutes alone, staring at the foil package in my hands with enough apprehension to give me tremors.

Roger is still gone, and I glance at my calendar, pinned over the bed in the spare room I'd been staying in at Maureen and Joanne's apartment. It depicts a stunning orange sunset over green waves, probably someplace remote and especially picturesque on the Atlantic, and reads "June" in loopy black script just below it. Each day I'd stayed with them, each day I'd been _forced_ to stay with them instead of at home, instead of the loft I loved, has a small black 'x' in the corner scrawled by my own shaky hand.

Not-so-coincidentally, it also marked the number of days since Roger had appeared to me. It was good to keep track of these things.

The room feels incredibly stuffy to me. It doesn't make a lot of sense when you think about it logically- Joanne has air conditioning in her apartment while the loft has nothing but holes in the walls and the incredible ability to become hotter than the open air outside, which by mid-June is searing, It doesn't have to make sense, though. I know what's really bothering me. I just don't want to say it.

No matter what I do to it, this is never going to be _my_ room. The duffel bag lying beside the neatly made bed- not made by me, of course, because that's just not in my nature- is still overflowing with clothing and toiletries and other things you would expect someone to take with them on vacation, things you would need for a few days in a hotel. It almost reminds me of one, actually. I find myself missing my drafty bedroom, the one I had shared with Roger right up until the day he died. I miss being able to wander and pace about without being watched, unconfined to this tiny space, and I miss the old band posters on the walls and the dust and the dirt that I never really bothered to clean up, even after Roger "left" and I had nothing else to do.

The only thing that I don't miss is that jackass alarm clock, although I've found it a challenge to get out of bed in the morning without it. Maybe that kick in the pants before ten a.m. was all I needed to get up and start a new day after all…

And maybe I shouldn't have taken it for granted.

It was sadder than it should have been to realize that, with Maureen and Joanne on my case like they were, I might never wake up to that obnoxious piece of plastic ever again.

Most of all I miss _not_ holding a package of what I'm not entirely convinced is unnecessary medication and dreading the side effects I just knew were going to kick my ass if I actually started taking it.

The foil crinkles in my hands as I toy with it, none too happy with my options. I could, of course, simply hide them or flush them down the toilet. It would be easy enough. I nodded to myself, picking at the foil as I contemplated it, but my smile soon slipped.

What if I _was_ crazy? Shouldn't I at least try to make myself better, for my friends? For my mother? I had seen both Mimi's mother and Roger's at their respective funerals, and it hadn't been a pleasant experience. I didn't want to believe it, but Roger's extended absence coupled with- cue shudder- my _diagnosis_ made for a shaky case on the ghost front. He wanted me to believe he was still here with me. He wanted me to believe he was real. But wasn't that exactly what any schizophrenic would say about their delusions?

I still can't get used to thinking of myself that way. Schizophrenic. It's a word that falls out of my mouth, clunky and vile-sounding, worse even than 'crazy'.

Am I really just seeing things? Hearing things? The flashbacks, the memories clogging my mind, thrusting themselves upon me whenever they please, they've disappeared for now but-

_What about Roger…?_

I don't _want_ to be crazy… I just want to do what I've always done. Sit back, observe, and love Roger unconditionally no matter what stupid shit he's done this time. It's the same old pattern, lather rinse repeat, but I was content with it.

Obviously, though, there's something wrong here. And the idea of losing my touch with reality-

" _Psychosis, Mr. Cohen- Mark, I'm sorry. Mark. Psychosis is a condition in which the patient has hallucinations or delusions- do you know what I'm getting at, Mark?"_

" _I suppose."_

" _You know that he's not here. He's dead. There's no such thing as ghosts, Mark. I'm sorry-"_

" _Get on with it."_

My voice has never been so cold, not even before Roger left for Santa Fe. (It seems so long ago even though I know it wasn't, that it was just a few short years ago that I lost him for the first time, the first time it had really meant anything to me that he was running away.) She had, even more infuriatingly, failed to be at all intimidated by my emotionless mask or biting tone and simply continued with what I was sure was a well-rehearsed speech.

" _Mark, I'm afraid what you have is a very serious condition- but not untreatable."_

" _So you're going to drug me."_

" _Well- yes, if you want to put it that way."_

" _Fine."_

I would never have agreed to this, honestly, despite all of this if not for Maureen. Goddamn Joanne to hell for bringing her. Her dark eyes had gleamed when I chanced a glance her way, her arms encircling Maureen's tiny waist the only thing that seemed to be keeping the weepy brunette in her seat. I'd never seen Maureen so emotional- she tended towards the dramatic, of course, but I hadn't known she was capable of more than crocodile tears. Not in recent years.

Well, here were the tears. And, like any healthy male, I didn't know what the hell I was supposed to do with a crying woman.

The tablets stared at me, smooth and blue and is it pathetic that just the sight of them makes me queasy?

What if Roger never comes back? What if I'm damning myself, and him, by doing this?

But I'm already peeling the foil back, placing the first of the tablets onto my tongue and making a face as I feel it instantly begin to dissolve, and I guess now I'll just have to wait and see.

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

If I thought I was restless before, it's nothing compared to now.

All I can do is pace, and when Joanne sits me down and tells me to take a break it lasts about four seconds before I'm on my feet again, trembling, unable to sit still. I suspect that this is one of those side effects I was so afraid of to begin with but there's not much to do about it.

It's been a couple of days. Nothing appears to have changed. Occasionally, out of the corner of my eye, I'll glimpse a moving shadow and excite myself thinking that maybe, maybe it could be Roger, and if I go chasing after it maybe I can pin him down and demand an explanation for his behavior.

I'm not crazy, I've decided. I'm just… I'm just in love.

Would they really say there was something wrong with that?

The worst part is that, despite how jittery I've become I'm tired all the time. I can't lay down, can't sleep, and there are bags appearing under my eyes.

I still can't tell if this is the medication or if I'm just approaching a long overdue emotional breakdown. Hell, if Maureen is allowed to have one then fuck it! So am I! Roger isn't here anymore for me to keep it together for, so why should I care?

I wish I could sleep, though. Maybe if I close my eyes I'll see him again. Maybe he'll come back and grovel for my forgiveness. He won't have to- I'll take him back either way, always have. Apologies from Roger aren't extremely common unless you count after withdrawal, after he found out all of the things he'd done to me during that, though he couldn't remember, could still see the bruises yellowing on my pale skin, glaringly obvious. He knows that I don't expect an apology from him. Absurd to think I would. So maybe…

Maybe I should apologize?

I don't know. My thoughts are jumbling together. I might just be tired, and I might just be high-strung- either way, I'm going to burst at the seams, and soon.

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

Dr. Harding isn't so bad once you get to know her, really, but the overall feeling of resentment I feel when they force me up the stairs into her air-conditioned office for a third time overshadows any friendliness that might have bloomed.

I tell her about my childhood, because she asks. I tell her about Maureen and Joanne, I tell her about Collins, I tell her about Angel and my movie and Roger's song-

I don't tell her about Roger.

He's mad at me. That must be it. Through the thick fog I seem to be squinting through these days, I swear that I can see him lurking just beyond my line of vision. I swear, when I lie in bed at night and pretend to sleep, I can see him looming over me and although it should frighten me, it doesn't. I feel safe. At the very least, if he isn't talking to me, he's still there.

Every once in a while I can hear his voice but it's garbled- like he's trying to communicate through a walkie talkie with horrible reception. He sounds desperate. Maybe he _does_ want to talk to me and he can't? Despite the notion, I can't bring myself to stop placing those little blue tablets on my tongue every morning, every night, waiting for some sign that things are getting better.

I don't tell anyone that I'm not crazy because they won't believe me. It's as simple as that. I've given up and decided that it would be easier just to become a better liar, and I think maybe I've succeeded because I know that Joanne has stopped checking the package to see if I've taken my dosage.

Sweet, innocent Marky. I can still muster bitterness for that skewed image that they seem to have of me, but I just smile and brush it off.

Innocent. Sure. Whatever you like…

More often than not it takes me a few tries to make it down the stairs without stumbling but I'll manage. Dizziness is something you grow accustomed to. And now that I'm allowed to leave the house on my own, I have so many things I want to do.

If I look everywhere, eventually I have to find Roger. Corner him.

He can't have gone far.

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

It happens in the middle of the night on the fourth day- I still can't believe that it's _only_ the fourth, or technically the fifth because my new alarm clock (which doesn't work at all as well as the obnoxious one on my nightstand in the loft, not by a long shot) reads 1:17 a.m.- and I wasn't prepared. Searching had gleaned me nothing in the past two days that I'd been allowed out on my own. Roger was nowhere to be found, and although I hadn't given up hope, the haze had become frustrating with no one to keep me company.

I lived alone at the loft, but somehow here I feel ten times as lonely as I ever did there.

At least there I had Roger…

But, speak of the devil, on that fourth/fifth day he was there, clambering back up into bed with me. I pretend not to notice, to be sleeping, afraid to scare him off; Roger knows me too well to be fooled. He grabs my arms, trying to shake me, and the feel of his cool, unnaturally papery skin against mine is enough to make me gasp. It sounds more like a sob.

He came back for me.

"Mark." He has no reason to whisper, since I'm the only one that hears him anyways, but Roger is strange like that and I choke on a laugh at the thought. I probably sound hysterical- I'm definitely on my way there. My eyes pop open and despite the fact that I had neglected to take off my glasses, his figure was blurry, almost pixelated in the darkness. But his voice is clear, gruff as always, maybe gruffer like he was suppressing a sob as well.

"Yeah?" I whispered back, voice hoarse from disuse. The grin spreading across my face ached more than any of the ones I'd forced in the past couple of days, mostly because it was genuine. Everything ached, actually, when I looked at him.

The only part of him that I could see clearly were his eyes, green and nearly glowing in the dimness, twin points of eerie light. He was pale, paler than usual even, and he looked even closer to crying than I was. I wondered how that could be possible. As usual, my head was spinning and it gave me a slight migraine to focus on him so hard, but for Roger I'd endure anything.

"You're an ass," he mutters, his body pressing against mine as he lies on top of me, careful as though I can actually feel his weight. The pressure is feather light but I won't complain- anything is better than nothing, better than the hollow feeling in my chest when he hadn't returned to reassure me. My arms automatically curl around his slim waist, hugging him closer. "I can't believe you believed them."

"I didn't really," I mumbled, an overwhelming sense of homecoming bringing tears to my eyes, stinging and pathetic. It's hard to feel pathetic, though, when Roger is finally here with me. "I was waiting for you…"

"You took the fucking pills," he growled, but his anger is fabricated. His nose nudges at my neck, trailing up to my ear, and his breath- not hot and moist but still, it's something, a breeze I'd been looking for. I nodded, abruptly ashamed of myself. _I_ had betrayed _him_ as well. My faith in him wasn't strong enough to last a week and I was going to take as much verbal abuse as it took for him to forgive me.

Just like the good old days, eh? There was hope for us yet.

"How could you do that? How could you?" Tears are choking him now and I don't feel so bad about my own, already streaming down the sides of my face and dripping down my neck, into my ears. I would sit upright were he not pinning me down. I want to see him but he isn't willing to remove himself from me, clinging like a koala bear to my skinny frame, and I have to admit that I can't bear the thought of being separated either. "Don't you love me? Marky?"

Vulnerability laces every word with a brand of poison I haven't felt in too long. I force myself to push him away, far enough that I can look him in the eyes again, my chest heaving. The fabric of my sheets rustles too loudly- I freeze, but only for half a second. _They can't hear…_ I know I'm being paranoid and force myself to focus, focus, and it's so much harder than it used to be before the medicine.

"I love you. Roger, I love you." Shakily, I slide one of my hands away from the small of his back and up to his face, cupping his jaw. My own words sound weak in comparison, but I'm satisfied with the fact that I sound as desperate as I feel. "Where were you? Why did you leave me alone?"

He doesn't answer and as poignant as the silence is, I didn't expect him to.

It's the first time since his death that I've held him like this. He'd always been so hesitant and so guarded, as antisocial as he'd been during his life, and too moody to even broach the subject. Now, though, the only sounds are the ragged sighs of our mingled breaths as he leans in to kiss me on the mouth.

I'd wondered if it was possible to kiss a ghost, or a hallucination if that's what he was- at this point I was sure it would remain a mystery. Obviously if he _is_ a hallucination the meds aren't doing their job, because as fuzzy as he is I can touch him better than ever, _feel_ him rather than see him and that's fine by me. It's dark anyways. I can't see the blank walls or the endless expanse of white that is the ceiling, that had tortured me for these past days, wishing for the dusty loft and Roger's flickering form. I can kiss him now, if I couldn't before, and his lips are freezing but I don't care as long as they're pressed against mine.

I squeeze tighter, tighter, wondering secretly if I squeeze tightly enough he'll disappear in a puff of smoke. The dizziness has become lightheadedness and it's only unpleasant if I think about it. I'd much rather think about Roger.

Desperation lines each of my movements, every sound and touch and taste. I want to know. I've always been too curious, always made too many exceptions for Roger Davis, and again I sacrifice myself for him. My body. My sanity. My life.

I'll give it all to him, all of it without a word, if that's what he wants.

The night is lost to wordless sensations, so terribly wrong that they're right, and then I lay hot and panting beside his cool silhouette and the contrast is as terrifying as it was to begin with, the living and the dead, our relationship and where it stands.

His fingers creep down my arm, searching, and twine with mine. His thumb traces the back of my hand. I can't think, can't concentrate, on anything but him and I breathe in, pretending I can smell him, using my imagination to fill in the gaps.

"Don't let them take you away, Marky," he whispers, tortured, and I'm helpless to do anything but nod. "I need you. I need you."

I don't have the strength to utter the words, but he knows I need him, too.


	9. August 1981

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Mark and Roger are very sad that I don't own them, so please, stop rubbing it in their faces.

_August 1981_

It's rare for Roger to go out on walks anymore. Mark knows that it's because he's afraid, afraid of what will happen if he leaves his mother alone; by now it's hard to ignore the bruises and the screaming at one in the morning, and the way that Roger insists that now all of their sleepovers have to be at his house even though it's impossible to sleep through the vicious cycle of fighting and crying and horrid thuds from the other side of his bedroom wall. He knows that Roger is just nervous, as nervous as he is about freshman year which starts the day before his birthday on the seventh this year, isn't that just his luck?

And that's why they're on this walk in the first place, because even though Mark hates to be that guy he knows he's the only one who can drag Roger outside. It's his job, he reasons, to prevent Roger from becoming some kind of hermit like that guy down the street whose always muttering to himself and peeking through the blinds when little kids run into his yard to retrieve their ball.

To be honest, Roger is just worrying him, but if he admitted that then this whole task would seem selfish and Mark wants to believe that it's for Roger's good and not his that they're walking home from the ice cream parlor, each with a waffle cone clutched in their hand.

He's hesitant to bring up the subject, and Roger- intuitive as always- bluntly does it for him. "So. You shittin' yourself yet over high school?"

Mark knows that his darker-haired best friend is going to play the age card whether he likes it or not, so he lets him without a peep. It's illogical to think that Roger knows all of the ins and outs of high school just because he somehow managed to survive freshman year without being beaten up or shoved into a locker, or worse (in Mark's eyes, anyways, and probably his mother's too since she's so convinced lately that Roger is a terrible influence on him) failing out. Still, Roger has discovered what it means to have influence now that he's older and his dad's taught him how to drive, on one of his good days, and Mark's gonna let it go because he knows Roger needs _something_ in order to feel like he's worth something next to goody-two shoes Mark.

And, well, maybe he wants a little bit of advice… Roger is certainly the only one he trusts to ask for it. It sucks being antisocial sometimes.

"Kind of…" He gives a nervous laugh, licking at the vanilla ice cream beginning to drop down the side of his cone. "I have this awful feeling that I'm going to end up living in my locker."

This earned no sympathy from Roger; he snorted, rolling his eyes and glancing at him almost condescendingly. "You're such a dork. Why don't you just carry around like, pepper spray? That'll keep 'em off you."

The second half of that sentence, the embarrassingly overprotective part, goes unspoken. _If I don't get to them first._

It does give Mark some comfort, of course, that Roger is going to be around to protect him but at the same it's a kind of blow to his pride that, apparently, he can't take a punch. Not even the thought of one. Mark has never really been one for manly pride- he actually thinks, to be honest, that most of the prime specimens of his gender are sexist, testosterone-fueled idiots and he's already vowed never to become one of them. But this just seems ridiculous. He was turning fourteen, and Roger was _still_ his only friend.

And his guard dog.

"I don't even know where I would get any." He wrinkles his nose, wondering if that familiar flush has risen on his face yet. It always seems to linger when Roger is around, though he can't pinpoint exactly why. Roger has always drawn odd reactions from him the way that nobody else could. "And anyways, I'd get expelled!"

"Oh, shut up. You'd be suspended at worst," Roger snorts, and he sounds as if he knows a thing or two about this. It was a long time coming, but Roger has become _quite_ the bigshot troublemaker now that he's officially a high schooler. Mark is pretty sure he's already gotten drunk and he's only fifteen, only a year older, but Mark feels like he's falling further behind him every day. He watches Roger wrap his tongue around his cone with a strange warmth in his stomach.

"Still." Frowning, he tears his gaze away and wonders what's wrong with him, watching the pavement as it passes beneath his feet, spotted with old smears of gum. His heart flutters. "I just- I don't know. Isn't high school supposed to be ten times harder than junior high?"

"You're worried about your _grades?_ " The other boy shoves him with a bark of laughter, shaking his head. "Jesus Christ, Mark, you're such a dweeb. Have some fun for once."

"School isn't about having fun," Mark mumbles, parroting his father. Roger just rolls his eyes, running a hand through his overgrown hair. He never did get that haircut, and now his hair is even more lopsided than it had been before when, most of the time, his mom had to cut it for him because he doesn't trust anyone but himself to lop it off when it starts to get in his eyes and annoy the fuck out of him.

Sometimes Mark wants to run his fingers through it and sometimes he does, when Roger is on the verge of falling asleep. He doesn't know what exactly that means.

His father would say it was queer but, by now, Mark has looked the word up in a thousand dictionaries- every one he could get his hands on- and he can't find _one_ where his father's description matches the actual definition.

Besides, what was wrong with being friendly? What was wrong with being able to touch each other if they wanted, and talk, and just sit beside each other and listen to the chaos and be glad that they aren't alone? There shouldn't be anything wrong with that.

"Yeah, well, it isn't about boring yourself half to death either. Maybe you'll attract some hot chicks." Roger actually seems sort of amused by this, so Mark lets him continue without making a face. "They like the innocent type."

Mark stumbles as his friend pinches his cheek, cooing obnoxiously, and swats him away with his ice cream hand. "Thanks," he laughs, and now he _knows_ he's bright red because there _is_ something fishy about how he has yet to find a girl he found personally attractive.

The next question that pops into his head makes him blush even harder, and he ducks his head. _No, I can't ask that…_ Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Roger seems to know exactly what he's thinking again- he has a knack for that that only becomes more uncanny as they grow older- and he snorts, nudging him.

"You'd better start practicing." That familiar cocky grin plays on his lips, and Mark already knows this spells embarrassment for him, somehow. Most things do- he's just prone to it. There's a crunch as Roger finishes off his cone and licks his fingers clean, loudly.

"… Practicing what?" It's more of a statement than a question, because he can see it on the tip of Roger's tongue as he leers at him.

"On your pillow or whatever the hell it is you do. You know." Roger makes a fist and sticks his tongue inside of it, wiggling it around and making an exaggerated moan. " _Mmmmm_ , Marky, kiss me you fool!"

Mark has never been so mortified. He gapes, blinking rapidly, as the warm twisting in his gut intensifies, and tries to pass it off as a choked laugh. "Ew. Roger, cut it out."

"Tell me it's not true," he snickered, raising a challenging eyebrow. Those green eyes have always been able to pierce Mark's defenses, and he gives an even more incredulous laugh as he examines the paler boy's face. "Oh my _God_. It is! You haven't kissed a girl yet?"

No, he hasn't, and he wasn't really planning on it. But now that Roger is talking about it it seems almost like he's missed some essential milestone and he squirms, wishing he had something to hide behind. "Well- no," he admits, chagrined. "But…"

"But what?" Roger throws a casual arm around his shoulders and oh, fuck, never mind blushing he's on fire. Heart thumping unevenly at the unnecessary but definitely not unwanted contact, he weakly continues, stammering.

"I just- I guess- I w-wanted it to be with someone… special? You know?"

On second thought, maybe he hadn't had as much to worry about telling Roger these things. His eyes lit up with understanding and before Mark can register what's happening Roger has stopped tugged them to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk, twisting to press their lips chastely together.

He's still trying to figure out how to breathe as Roger pulls away, blue eyes so wide he's surprised his glasses haven't slipped off of his face and cracked on the sidewalk. He can vaguely feel his ice cream melting down his arm and doesn't bother wiping it away. Roger is grinning, incredibly pleased with himself for coming up with this solution, continuing as if nothing had happened.

"Well there you go. That's over with, now, huh?"

And Mark can't muster any anger or awkwardness over Roger stealing his lip virginity, because it's _Roger_ and they're going back to his place now to eat junk and play video games and try to drown out the domestic violence in the next room.

And honestly- would he have wanted it any other way?


End file.
